


Forget Tradition

by Mackem



Series: Can You Imagine When This Race Is Won? [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21906400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: “Hey, Rich?”“Hmm?”“What’re we gonna do for Christmas?”“What do you mean?” His hands tug lightly at Eddie’s hair. “Is this about – listen, I’m telling you, man, your gifts aren’t even hidden in the damn wardrobe, so -”“- That’s not what I meant.” Eddie pauses, and raises his head to smirk at Richie. “But you wouldn’t mind if I checked, then?”Richie’s face moves through panic, terror, and finally morphs into an unconvincingly casual mask. “I mean, Iwouldcare, because you’d have to hire a crane to get yourself high enough to see up there, and that can get pretty expensive, y’know?”“Oh, so you only care about my finances? That’s what this is about?”“Obviously. Your money, and nothing else. How am I supposed to be a trophy boyfriend if my man ain’t even loaded?”“More like a trophy dickhead,” Eddie snorts, without any fire, and snuggles into Richie’s shoulder. “That really isn’t what I meant, though. What’re we gonna do for Christmas, like, to celebrate it?”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Can You Imagine When This Race Is Won? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597312
Comments: 35
Kudos: 480





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A week yesterday, I decided I wanted to write a fluffy little Christmas fic, just showing Eddie and RIchie a nice time together.
> 
> 20,000 words later...
> 
> The second part will be along either Monday or Tuesday! It's written, I just couldn't justify posting so much all at once. The OC is only in this very briefly, I promise, and I named her after the god my D&D cleric worships, because that's just who I am, baby.
> 
> Not beta-read, so apologies for any mistakes along the way!

It’s a perfectly innocuous question. It really shouldn’t send Eddie into such a tizzy.

Lydia, the woman who has the office beside Eddie, is the one who poses it. Eddie likes her; she’s in her thirties, and is sensible and staid, and is a cheerful kind of person. The two of them make small talk whenever their paths cross, and it’s usually reassuringly easy-going and low-key. 

They bump into each other as they’re both leaving to head home for the day towards the end of December. Eddie sees her approaching down the corridor, and holds the elevator for her. She gives him a grateful smile when she enters, and he grins in return.

Their office is high in the building, so they have a little while to chat as they leave together. It is obvious to Eddie that she is in a very good mood, grinning and bouncing a little on her heels as they descend, and he can’t help but comment on it. “You look happy.”

“Yeah, I should do!” she beams. “I’ve put some vacation time in. This was my last day before I’m off. Christmas starts now!”

“Oh, awesome,” Eddie grins. “Glad I asked. I’m definitely not jealous at _all_.” 

He’s half-joking at most; he has saved his own vacation days for the end of the month, when all the Losers are heading to Georgia to stay with Stan and Patty to see in the new year. They arranged it all months ago, and Eddie has been looking forward to it from the moment Stan offered. He can’t wait for everyone to be together again.

“Hah! Your nose just grew an inch,” Lydia chuckles. “Anyway, you _should_ be jealous! I’m going to have all kinds of fun. I’m going to bake tonight, and I’m seeing my daughter’s school play tomorrow, and we’re going to go carolling, and that’s just for starters!”

“That all sounds really fun,” Eddie smiles, his heart warmed. “I hope you all have a great time.”

“Hey thanks!” Lydia beams. She strides out of the elevator and glances back at Eddie with a smile. “So what about you? What’re you doing for Christmas?”

Eddie opens his mouth. Then he closes it, and frowns, as his mind empties.

What _is_ he doing for Christmas?

“Eddie?” Lydia prompts. She’s walked ahead of him, after he stopped in the middle of the elevator. The elevator begins to close, and it startles him into moving; he forces his arm through the doors and curses when they judder, and sullenly slide open again.

“Right. Sorry,” he parrots, jogging to catch up with Lydia. She’s watching him bemusedly. “What, uh, what did you say?”

“Christmas,” she repeats patiently. “Are you spending it with your family, or your boyfriend, or…?”

“Uh,” Eddie says, feeling ever more eloquent by the second. He flushes after a moment, when he sees the kind smile she sends his way. 

Eddie is out of the closet nowadays, though he doesn’t talk about his relationship with Richie much at work. Not because anybody has any issues with it – to Eddie’s relief, everybody had been kinder than he had believed possible when he had revealed he had a boyfriend after some gentle prodding over lunch one day – but because Richie is a public figure, and some of his co-workers are keen for gossip about Trashmouth.

Still, Lydia’s always been refreshingly blasé about Eddie dating a celebrity, and is way more enthralled by the fact that he found love in a childhood friend he hadn’t seen for almost thirty years. It’s romantic, apparently. It’s sweet. It’s rare.

Eddie doesn’t know how something can be rare when six-sevenths of his friendship group have done the same thing, but he’s so pleased that she doesn’t care about muckraking that he doesn’t bother to correct her.

He nods after a long moment. “Right. I, uh, I don’t really have any family, and neither does my boyfriend, so…”

“An intimate Christmas together it is?” Lydia suggests, and Eddie nods, relieved by the out she’s throwing him. “Aww. I hope it’s great, Eddie.”

“Hey, yours too,” he offers. 

He freezes in place as she steps closer, alarmed and surprised, but relaxes when he realises she’s just drawing him into a brief hug. He returns it at the last second, and smiles sheepishly as she pulls away and chuckles. “Merry Christmas, Eddie,” she says, and walks towards the front door.

“Merry Christmas!” he calls in return, but he makes no move to follow her.

Eddie has not actually considered Christmas much at all, despite the air of festivity that descended on New York as soon as Halloween was out of the way. 

He had been much more preoccupied with planning Thanksgiving with Beverly and Ben; getting the whole group together always took a lot of talking back and forth, even without considering who would bring what to dinner, and if Eddie never has to read another text thread debating the logistics of transporting a lobster across the country again, it’ll be too soon. 

And then over dinner, amidst all the celebrating and laughter, Stan and Patty suggested they all meet up again to usher 2019 away, and everyone’s attention turned to New Year.

With all of that, the thought of Christmas had just… faded into the back of Eddie’s mind, for the most part.

Christmas hasn’t really been a big thing for him since he was a kid, and even then, it had always been a quiet affair. He and his mom had usually spent it with his aunt, flying out to New York to spend a week or so at her house, and it had always been a muted time that Eddie had not particularly looked forward to.

Then Eddie had met Myra, and shortly after Eddie’s mom had died, and Myra had taken charge of all of their Christmas planning. She had always started early, well before Fall hit, and it was undertaken with ruthless efficiency; not a minute of their day was wasted. 

Christmas officially started with midnight mass, where Eddie shivered in his best suit in a church he had not thought about since last Christmas, and guiltily ignored as much of the the priest’s droning as much as he could. But the carols were always enjoyable; or, at least, they were always reliably cacophonous enough to stop Eddie from dozing off.

Then they headed home, and had what felt like five minutes to sleep, before their whirlwind of a day would truly begin. They always visited Myra’s cousin for breakfast, then drove across town to spend time with her aging grandmother, until it was time to head to her sister’s house for a grand Christmas lunch. Finally, they made their way to her mother’s house for an evening party, by which time Eddie was usually exhausted and fighting back a migraine. 

But Myra had always been so happy on Christmas Day, and seeing it filled Eddie’s heart with light. He was more than willing to spend time with her family if it brought her so much joy. It was nice to feel as though he was a good husband for once.

But now… 

Now he finds himself at something of a loose end without somebody to plan his day for him.

He and Richie have no family. Hell, he and Richie _are_ each other’s family, along with the rest of the Losers. Of _course_ the two of them will be spending Christmas Day together. They spend pretty much every day with each other. 

They’ve already missed out on so much time together. Neither of them wants to waste what they have left by spending it apart.

But what the hell should they _do_ for Christmas? What do people actually do with their Christmases if they aren’t spending it with family?

He has no idea.

He mulls it over as he walks home, and resolves to ask Richie what he thinks. He’s Jewish, ostensibly, though Eddie knows he hasn’t actually practiced since he was a kid, and even then the Toziers had hardly been the most religious of families. 

Eddie knows he and Stan have sent each other a package of Hanukkah gifts in the post, though he’s also pretty sure Richie has mostly picked joke gifts that will make Stan and Patty smile. He had not seemed to have any appreciation for the occasion itself; he had been much more delighted to have the opportunity to fuck with Stan.

Beyond that, the Losers have arranged a Secret Santa, that they plan to hand out when they meet up for New Year. Richie drew Mike, and has been tight-lipped about what he’s chosen for him, which means that it is either ridiculous, or ridiculously thoughtful. Eddie drew Ben; he hopes he’ll appreciate the elaborate Star Wars Lego set he’s picked out for him. 

He and Richie are planning to exchange gifts before that, of course. He knows damn well that Richie is keeping a stash of presents for him in the top drawer of his wardrobe, because on two separate occasions he has walked in on him teetering dangerously atop a stool as he roots through the back of it.

The second time Eddie caught him in the act, Richie was so frantic in the way he flailed at him and shrieked, “AVERT YOUR EYES!” that he almost fell. It took Eddie rushing at him and steadying him at the waist before he could regain his balance. 

He is such an idiot.

Eddie is keeping the few presents he’s bought for Richie in Bev and Ben’s house, because he’s _not_ an idiot. Though he might turn out to be one if he forgets to collect them before Christmas rolls around.

Still, beyond exchanging gifts… what do people _do_ for Christmas? There’s supposed to be activities, or something, right? Traditions that everybody loves and looks forward to?

He has no idea. 

He is still frowning softly to himself when he lets himself into the front door of their apartment. “I’m home!”

He shrugs after a moment, when silence is his only response. He removes his jacket, then takes off his shoes and tie. He heads to the bathroom to wash his hands and splash some water on his face, then rolls up his sleeves, and heads towards the living room in search of his partner. 

He finds Richie sprawled along their couch, dressed in sweatpants and the same t-shirt Eddie watched him spill coffee down earlier this morning, when he was too groggy to find his mouth with his cup.

Richie lies flat on his back, with his laptop propped up at a ridiculous angle on his knees, and his head is awkwardly held up by a cushion as he types furiously. Eddie’s spine hurts just looking at him.

He seems not to have heard Eddie returning home, despite his greeting. 

He gets like this, sometimes; he becomes so involved in whatever he’s writing that he zones out from the rest of reality. Eddie sometimes feels as though a nuclear bomb could drop without Richie noticing it when he is in this kind of head space, though he feels certain that he might realise something was amiss once his nose had rotted off.

Eddie doesn’t take offense at what amounts to Richie ignoring him. He knows it isn’t deliberate; Richie has proved time and time again that Eddie is his absolute favourite person, and there have been days where Eddie has barely managed to get through the door before Richie is on him, arms hauling him into a kiss even before he’s managed to announce his presence. 

But he writes with a laser focus that is missing from other aspects of his life, and Eddie knows better than to assume that Richie is actively ignoring his presence. He probably has no idea Eddie is even home.

He frowns to himself at the sight of him sprawled so uncomfortably and, despite his desire to discuss this whole Christmas thing, he heads for the kitchen.

Eddie sets the coffee machine brewing, and retrieves a hot water bottle from their hall closet, which he fills and wraps in a fluffy towel. He tucks that under his arm, then fills two cups with coffee, adds skimmed milk to his own, puts a glug of creamer and sugar in Richie’s, and heads back to the living room.

Richie does not notice his presence until Eddie stoops over him and presses a kiss to his forehead from above. 

He shrieks, and Eddie narrowly avoids taking a forehead to his chin as Richie jolts upright, his eyes wide and alarmed. It lasts for a second as he whirls in his seat to face Eddie, then melts into exaggerated shock as Eddie laughs. “Edward Spaghedward! I say, you bounder! You quite startled the gubbins from me, don’t you know!”

“If that means I scared the sense out of you, then sure, I guess so,” Eddie chuckles, rolling his eyes as the British Guy emerges.

“You’re absolutely bloody right you did! Gadzooks!” Richie adds, before he glances at the clock and offers a more genuine, sheepish smile. When he speaks, he has abandoned the British Guy in favour of his own voice. “I didn’t realise it was so late, sorry. I meant to be done when you got home. You, uh, has it been long…?”

“Only a couple minutes.” Eddie sets both coffees down on the table and pushes Richie on the shoulder until he scoots along the couch, making room for Eddie to ensconce himself by Richie’s side. “I said hey, but you didn’t hear me.”

“So you chose to scare the hell out of me?”

“I mean, it wasn’t meant to scare you,” Eddie protests, before shrugging easily. “I’m not mad it did, though. Bonus points, right?”

“Oh, sure. And it’s nowhere near the worst way people have tried to get my attention.” 

Richie grins as Eddie snuggles into his side, and slides his arm around his shoulders. His eyes are warm, and full of fondness, and Eddie watches his amused grin bloom into a softer smile as he looks him over. 

His hand curls around Eddie’s neck to stroke lightly at the soft hairs at the nape, teasing a shiver from him, and Richie leans in to press a kiss to Eddie’s lips as easily as if they have been doing so for years.

It hurts his heart, sometimes, when he considers all the time they could have spent doing just that, but he tries not to think about it like that. They can’t change the past, after all. They can only move forward, together.

Eddie casts the thought from his mind, and focuses on the slow movement of their lips as they meet, and the warmth that spreads through him as Richie moves even closer to deepen their kiss.

Until he pulls away with a startled hiss, and his hand flies to clutch the back of his own neck with a pained groan. “Fuck! _Ow_! My fucking neck, jeez!”

“That’s what you get for writing in such a stupid position,” Eddie says, and does not even try to supress the disapproving tone to his voice. “How long were you lying like that?”

“I dunno,” Richie mutters, which translates to _‘hours, but I’m not going to admit that’_ in Eddie’s head. Ever full of sympathy, he flicks Richie on the nose to see his face scrunch into an outraged moue. 

“What did we talk about?” he presses, giving Richie a significant arch of his eyebrow. He rolls his eyes when silence is forthcoming. “C’mon, man! Your health matters, Rich! You have to look after your back! You have an office with a perfectly good desk in it, and an ergonomic chair! There’s no reason for you to lie on the couch like a sack of potatoes while you write! You’ve probably sprained your neck muscles, and you’re definitely going to be at an increased risk of osteoarthritis if you don’t work on your posture, and do you have any _idea_ how dangerous a bulging disc can be?”

“I’m more interested in bulging -”

“- Herniated discs can require surgery to treat! And spinal surgery can lead to so many complications! Paralysis, numbness, tingling, not to mention the risks involved in actually having the surgery itself – sepsis, MRSA, pneumonia, hell, norovirus is _fucking rampant_ in hospitals this time of year! Do you want to vomit _and_ shit all over yourself because your back hurts too much to get up?”

Richie merely watches him quietly as he rants. His eyes are half-closed as he grins at him, but they seem to sparkle behind his lids, and he gazes at Eddie as though he is the best thing he’s ever seen.

Eddie feels a flush creep into his cheeks. “Do you?” he demands, and punctuates it with a pointed prod to Richie’s side

He folds up with a gasp, and bursts into laughter. “Wait, did you just ask if I want to shit myself? Jeez, I’m not looking to yuck any yums here, but no, that’s not my kink, Eds. Sorry! We can talk about the vomit, if that’s, like, a _thing_ for you? But -”

“- You’re disgusting,” Eddie snaps, and thrusts the hot water bottle at Richie. “Here!”

Richie blinks in surprise, and just holds it dumbly, so Eddie sighs, and takes it back. He prods and grumbles and generally bullies Richie into lying down with his head and neck pillowed on it, and produces a smug smile of satisfaction when Richie groans in relief. “Feel nice?”

“Hell yeah, it does,” Richie mumbles. He wriggles with his feet in Eddie’s lap, and tilts his head up to blink at him. “You just carry one of these around?”

“Hot water bottles are not part of my boy scout’s kit,” Eddie huffs, and stretches closer to press Richie’s head back down. “Stop lying like that! You’ll fuck up your neck even more!”

Richie does not protest; he merely moves where Eddie arranges him, and smiles at the ceiling. “Wait, you weren’t a boy scout, though. Were you? Am I remembering that right? I know Stan was, but I can’t picture you in the uniform. Which is a real fucking shame, let me tell you.”

“I was a kid, you pervert!”

“So was I! It’s not perverted if we were both kids!” Richie protests. He pokes Eddie in the stomach with his toe, and Eddie sees his eyebrows waggling at the ceiling. “Could we arrange for an adults-only uniform scenario, do you think?”

Eddie flushes bright red. He drags his nails down the sole of Richie’s foot to hear him hiss and curse. “I repeat – you’re a pervert.”

“That wasn’t a no, though!” Richie laughs, and Eddie does not bother to correct him. Richie settles after a moment, and asks, “Seriously, you weren’t a scout, right? Am I forgetting that? I really can’t picture Mrs K letting you run wild in the wilderness.”

“I asked if I could join,” Eddie grumbles. “She told me it was too dangerous. Too dirty. ‘Tetanus lives in soil, Eddie! Polio lives in water! We can’t risk it!’” 

He sighs, and pushes Richie’s sweatpants up to rest a hand on his bare ankle. He runs his thumb over the bony joint, and lets his presence settle him. “But Stan used to come meet up with me, after his troop meetings, and he’d show me everything they learned. How to tie knots, and which plants were dangerous, and stuff.”

“Yeah?” Richie’s face creases into a smile. “That’s a pretty sweet image. A little Losers-only scout troop.”

“It was awesome of him,” Eddie smiles in return, because it _was_. Stanley had suggested it when he had miserably explained that his mom wasn’t letting him come along to the meetings, and Eddie had been so overwhelmed with gratitude that he had practically broken his ribs with the force of his hug. Eddie suspects he had more fun hanging out with just Stan than he would have had with the entire rest of the troop.

“I had no idea! How come I wasn’t involved in this? Was it because I was a disruptive little shit who would definitely have ruined your fun Stanley times?” Richie laughs, and the smile he aims at the ceiling is bright, and there is not a trace of accusation in his voice.

“You know that isn’t it,” Eddie scowls, and lightly pinches the skin above his ankle. He bends to press a kiss to the same spot when Richie whines, and his brows draw together thoughtfully as he wonders why Richie hadn’t been there. It had been rare for Eddie to do anything without him, and Richie was always such a sucker for him _and_ Stan. It’s hard to imagine why he hadn’t got in on their little weekly scout lessons.

Eventually, a thought occurs to him. He has a vague memory of the two of them asking Richie to come along, but there was something about… Beverly? “Wait, weren’t you busy with Bev, or something?” His brow creases, and he sees Richie’s do the same as he grasps for details. “Stan and I used to meet up after school – didn’t you two do something after school, too? She used to walk home with you, once a week, right?”

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Richie says, surprise spreading across his face, before it is replaced with a smile. “It was every Thursday. We always got a milkshake on the way home. My mom used to give me extra allowance so I could get one for Bev too. Jeez, I completely forgot - how did _you_ remember that?”

Because Eddie remembers all too well missing Richie’s otherwise constant presence in his life on those evenings. “Dunno. I just do.”

“You weirdo.”

“Whatever. What were you two doing?”

“Oh, shit, get this - we used to do our homework together on Thursdays, because we had science together on Fridays. Me and Bev had our own nerdy little homework club going while you were having your dorky meet-ups with Scout Stan.”

“Yeah, right!” Eddie snorts. “Like I’m gonna believe you and Bev met up to do _homework_. What’d you actually do? Smoke together?”

Richie snorts a laugh. “Eddie, my love, you are absolutely right to doubt my devotion to Mrs Dawson’s science class. But just this once, I really do mean it when I say I was doing my homework. It was, like, the only lesson I ever actually did the work for.”

“Huh.” Eddie frowns. Richie had deigned to look at his homework as and when it occurred to him to do so, if he wasn’t too busy doing literally anything else, and yet had always ended up with A’s in his lessons. It had always driven Eddie wild. The idea of him regularly working on his homework with Bev is nothing short of astonishing. “How come?”

“It wasn’t my choice, man. My mom started it. One day, completely out of nowhere, she asked me if Bev was in any of my classes, and when I said science she was immediately like, ‘You definitely need a study buddy for science, we’re going to invite her over and you’re going to study together.’ I… I don’t think it was anything to do with science, man. I got the impression I could’ve said any class and Maggie would’ve said I needed Bev’s help with it.”

Silence falls for a moment as Eddie pensively runs his hand over his calf, before Richie’s face morphs into a bittersweet smile. “You ever wonder how much our parents knew about what was going on?”

“What do you mean? With… with It?”

“Nah. Not that. Just, like, you ever think maybe they kinda figured out about all the other shit? I mean, Maggie was… Sometimes I’d see her watching Bev, man, and her face was always so…” 

Richie trails off, and sighs as his hands formlessly shape the air, the words apparently beyond him. “Maggie loved all you guys, but I think she had a soft spot for Bev. And you too, of course, like, _obviously_ , but Bev was… special? She didn’t just come over to study, man. Mom would talk her into staying for dinner, and she used to give her second and third helpings, and she would always give her some to take home with her. She was always, like, ‘call us if you ever need us!’ when she was leaving, too.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes.

“Right? I don’t know how much she… She never actually _said_ … But at the time I never got why she wanted Bev around. So dumb, right? I used to think maybe she was hoping we’d date.” 

He laughs softly, chagrined. “Though looking back, I’m pretty sure Maggie knew that was never actually gonna happen.”

Eddie’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Richie’s parents died years before they all went back to Derry, and Richie only came out this year. “Wait, she knew about…?”

“I mean, I never told her.” Richie shrugs, then groans and shifts on top of the hot water bottle. “But I think they both knew. They never asked me about girlfriends, man. They would just say, like,” Richie schools his face, and when he speaks, Eddie is jolted back in time; he hears the voice of Wentworth Tozier, jovial and fond. “’You met anybody nice yet, Richie Rich?’”

“Yeah, well, you had,” Eddie says, to break the silence that descends when Richie trails off. He prods him pointedly in the ankle. “Me! I’m nice!”

“You are?” Richie asks, and dissolves into giggles as Eddie scowls and prods him even harder. “Shit, I mean, you _are_!”

“Damn right I am! I’m nice as hell, and you better not forget it!” Eddie laughs.

“The nicest,” Richie agrees. He sighs, and adds, “They fucking loved you, y’know? Which, I mean, that’s lucky, because it’s not like you didn’t practically live with us some days, right?”

“They were awesome,” Eddie murmurs. 

He can picture Richie’s parents clearly, nowadays, even without the photographs Richie has placed around the apartment; Maggie, with her dark, curly hair bouncing at her shoulders as she laughs at the antics of her husband and son, and Wentworth, pushing his glasses up his nose and grinning brightly as he joins in with Richie’s ridiculous Voices.

Warmth had always seemed to fill the Tozier house, even if it had also been loud and kind of messy. 

They had been easy-going, and affectionate, with Richie but also with all of Richie’s friends, too. There wasn’t a Loser who hadn’t been welcome to join them for dinner, or to sleep over. They liked to play with their son, teasing and poking fun at his nonsense, but they had always encouraged him too, even as they occasionally despaired about his behaviour. 

The days that report cards were handed out were always grim times for Richie, despite his excellent grades. The scathing remarks about his conduct had never gone down well with his disappointed parents. Richie had always seemed somehow muted in the days following, claiming to have turned over a new leaf.

It never lasted long. Sooner or later, he’d be back to goofing off in class, and Eddie is pretty sure Richie could have found his way to the principal’s office even without his glasses.

Despite it all, Mr and Mrs Tozier had always made it clear that they loved their son. And Eddie, too; he had always felt welcome in their house.

Wentworth had been Eddie’s dentist. He always made sure to slip Eddie a couple of extra lollipops after every appointment with a conspiratorial wink, making sure his mother did not see. Maggie had always kept Eddie’s favourite ice cream in their freezer. He had been invited on every vacation the Toziers had ever taken, not that his mom ever let him go.

He wonders, with a quick clench of his heart, just how much they had seen, even then.

He clears his throat, and tightens his fingers on Richie’s leg. “I really loved them, too.”

“They would’ve been so jazzed about us getting together,” Richie chuckles. “For real and no foolin’.”

“Yeah?” Eddie’s stomach swirls happily with the thought of this. He lifts his ankles out of his lap, and crawls over him until he can drape himself comfortably along the length of Richie’s body. He props himself up on his elbows and presses a kiss to his lips, then murmurs, “Your parents would’ve approved of me dating their son?”

“Of course,” Richie murmurs, and Eddie presses another kiss to his lips, sweet and light. “They loved you, man.” 

Eddie offers another kiss in response, deeper and more fevered, and Richie grins against him. “Really? Approval from parental figures is what gets you going? Oh, holy _shit_ , of course it is - how did I never fucking _realise_!”

Eddie bursts into laughter against his lips. A hand snakes between the two of them to tweak Richie’s nipple through his shirt in retribution, but he presses another kiss to his lips to swallow Richie’s pained yelp. 

“You’re such an ass,” he mutters when he pulls away, but it does not stop him from kissing a trail down from Richie’s mouth, over the long line of his stubbled throat, until he settles himself down to lie with his head on Richie’s shoulder.

“But you love me?”

“But I love you,” Eddie agrees. He presses a kiss to his collarbone, then another, and follows it up by worrying a mark onto his skin, pressing his teeth in until Richie moans softly and clutches at his hair.

He settles after that, too tired and lazy post-work to take it any further. Richie offers no protest; he merely cards his hands through Eddie’s hair, deliberately messing it up, but his touch is gentle, and soothing, and for once, Eddie does not have it in him to complain. 

He’s just about to doze off, when Lydia’s words drift through his mind again, and his previous consternation comes flooding back. “Hey, Rich?”

“Hmm?”

“What’re we gonna do for Christmas?”

“What do you mean?” His hands tug lightly at Eddie’s hair. “Is this about – listen, I’m telling you, man, your gifts aren’t even hidden in the damn wardrobe, so -”

“- That’s not what I meant.” Eddie pauses, and raises his head to smirk at Richie. “But you wouldn’t mind if I checked, then?”

Richie’s face moves through panic, terror, and finally morphs into an unconvincingly casual mask. “I mean, I _would_ care, because you’d have to hire a crane to get yourself high enough to see up there, and that can get pretty expensive, y’know?”

“Oh, so you only care about my finances? That’s what this is about?”

“Obviously. Your money, and nothing else. How am I supposed to be a trophy boyfriend if my man ain’t even loaded?”

“More like a trophy dickhead,” Eddie snorts, without any fire, and snuggles into Richie’s shoulder. “That really isn’t what I meant, though. What’re we gonna do for Christmas, like, to celebrate it?”

“Oh.” Richie sounds genuinely surprised by the concept. His hands pause in their playing with Eddie’s hair. “You mean, like, beyond the gifts?”

“Right. Somebody at work asked me what I was doing, and I blanked.” He shifts, and raises his head to meet Richie’s eyes. “I’m not offending you, right?”

“By talking about Christmas?” Richie scoffs. “ _Dude_.”

“Well I don’t know!” Eddie blusters. “C’mon, man! You’re not - I don’t want to, like, fucking force it on you!”

“Yeah, shit, I’m appalled that you’ve allied yourself with Big Christmas. This is the last fucking straw. My delicate Jewish sensibilities cannot handle -”

“- Fuck you,” Eddie sighs. He makes to stand, but Richie’s hand closes on his wrist with a whine when he sits up, and Eddie merely shifts to sit beside him with a huff. Richie drags himself upright, supporting his neck with a groan, and settles beside him, resting the hot water bottle on his shoulders. 

“No, c’mon, I’ll be good,” Richie promises. He twines his fingers with Eddie’s and gives them a squeeze. “I know it’s not a fucking religious thing, Eds. You care just as little about big Jay Cee as I do, and I know it. But you want to live it up on the day itself?”

“Yeah. And for the holidays in general. Like, shouldn’t we?” Eddie asks, suddenly uncertain. “I mean, it’s our first one together. It’s meant to be special, right?”

“So the world would have me believe,” Richie says with a slightly pained shrug. He rolls his head to the side to look at Eddie curiously. “So what do you normally do for it? What’s a typical Eddie Spaghetti Christmas look like?”

“I… I just used to do whatever Myra wanted,” Eddie admits. His fingers tighten in Richie’s unconsciously, and he drinks in the warmth that trickles through him when Richie returns the gesture. “And hope it wouldn’t be too long a day. She has a lot of family in town, and we’d go visit them. I usually had a headache by the time we were done. But they were lovely,” he adds hurriedly, as Richie raises an eyebrow. “Honestly. Just, y’know. They were a lot.”

He wonders, suddenly, if that is what Myra will be doing this year. He wonders if she’s found somebody else to show off to them, or whether she’s going alone, content with her own company.

He hopes she’s happy, either way.

He sighs. “What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I dunno. I know it isn’t your thing, but what did you do last Christmas?” Eddie asks. Maybe it’ll give them a starting point.

Richie squirms uncomfortably. “I mean. Honestly? Drink. Miss Maggie and Went, and wish I was with you guys. Wallow in how lonely I was. …Drink some more.”

“Oh.” Their fingers tighten on each other, and Eddie leans over to press a kiss to Richie’s cheek. He finishes up by leaning against his shoulder, sprawled along the length of his side as though he belongs there. He rests their clasped hands on Richie’s thigh and stares at them. “I mean. In a way, you’ve kind of nailed the Christmas experience, I guess.”

Richie bursts into startled laughter. His free hand rises to cling to his neck in discomfort, but he keeps laughing throughout. “Well _jeez_ , Eddie! I feel like we can set the bar a _little_ higher for our own soiree, y’know?”

“Wait, you want a party?”

“I – no?” Richie scratches his head as he quietens down. “Why? Do you want a party?”

“No,” says Eddie, instinctively, because he doesn’t. He never wants a party, unless it’s all-Losers. “But, like, what _do_ we do?”

Richie noses at his hair contemplatively. “Well, what do you want to do?”

Eddie thinks for a long moment. “What are my options?” he says slowly, and feels Richie shrug.

“Couldn’t tell you, dude. I’m a Christmas novice. Why don’t you google it?” Richie turns his head to press a kiss to his hair, and it turns into a long groan. Eddie finds himself sprawling sidelong on the couch as Richie folds over miserably, one hand clamped to his neck with a wince. “God, why do I do these things to myself? You got anything I could take to un-fuck my neck, Eds?”

“I’ll get you something,” Eddie says, and rises to his feet. 

“Get the good shit!” Richie calls as Eddie heads for the bathroom, but Eddie is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear him. 

Huh. Why _doesn’t_ he google it?

***

He waits until after dinner to reach for his phone.

He and Richie bustle around the kitchen together first, bickering and getting in each other’s way in what amounts to a familiar dance by now. The two of them are well-versed in how to function as a team, and Eddie having to physically move Richie out of the way so he can grab a particular chopping board, or Richie clambering past Eddie to grab spice pots, does not actually slow them down.

They eat, and catch each other up on their days, and spend half an hour curled up together and watching an episode of _Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction_ while they digest. Only when they have finished trying to separate the truth from Johnathan Frakes’ bullshit does Richie groan, and stand up. He scoops up his laptop, starts to lie down on the couch, and then hurriedly straightens up when Eddie aims a megawatt glare at him.

“I’m going to do some writing,” he says carefully, holding his laptop in front of him like a shield. “In my office, sitting on my fancy ergonomic chair, and I won’t fuck up any of my body parts in doing so. Right?”

“Right,” Eddie confirms. He points significantly towards Richie’s office. “And don’t come crying to me if we end up in the ER because you dicked the only spine you’ll ever have.”

“I won’t! I won’t do that. I’ll behave,” Richie claims. He walks into his office, then yells, “Sucks to be you! Frakes inspired me! I’m going to Riker the shit out of my chair!”

“You’ll hurt your balls!” Eddie bellows in return. He gets no answer, save an eventual yelp, which only teases a satisfied smirk from him.

Left to his own devices, and not really any further forward after his conversation with Richie, Eddie picks up his phone, and googles, _‘Things to do Christmas New York.’_

He scrolls through the results for a moment, before he screws his nose up, and heads back to the search box. 

_‘Things to do Christmas New York City.’_

He has no desire to travel across the state to see a particular Christmas parade, or lighting ceremony. They can’t be _that_ amazing.

The amendment brings results more to his satisfaction, and within his preferred radius of travel. Eddie scrolls through, humming thoughtfully, then returns to the top of the list, and reaches for a pen.

He realises, as he’s reading, that he’s left things a little late. They only have a few days before Christmas, and Eddie is working up to the twenty-fourth, and google is giving him an awful lot that he apparently _needs_ to do to have the perfect Christmas with Richie.

He’s really going to have to use every spare minute they have if they want to do this properly.

A couple of hours later, he wanders into Richie’s office with a fistful of meticulously planned lists. “Rich?”

He watches him type for a few more seconds, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow, before Eddie’s voice filters through whatever place his head is in. He looks up, and blinks in surprise, before a grin spreads across his face. 

Eddie’s stomach flips happily at the sight of it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way Richie is always so damn pleased to see him.

“’Sup, Spaghet?”

“I figured it all out,” Eddie says, and waves the papers in Richie’s face. He splutters theatrically, and shrinks back.

“The secret to killing your boyfriend with paper?”

“Death by a thousand paper cuts,” Eddie supplies, and bounces on the balls of his feet when Richie laughs. It always feels wonderful, teasing a laugh from him. “No, dude, Christmas. I’ve figured it out!”

“You’ve figured it out?” Richie echoes with a chuckle. “Like it’s a murder mystery! Lemme guess – the innkeeper did it. The three gifts were myrrh, frankincense, and arsenic. No, wait - the calls were coming from inside the manger?”

Eddie blinks. “What? No, listen, shut up.”

“Yessir!” Richie salutes, his voice dropping into The Colonel’s Southern drawl. “Shutting up, sir! Listening, sir!”

“I googled it, like you said. There’s tons of things to do around here, so it’s gonna be tough get through it all, ‘cause we’ve left it so late, but I’ve planned it all out. Can you keep your evenings free?”

“I can probably rearrange some things. Switch some appointments around to make time for you. I’ll get my PA onto it,” Richie says airily, as though he doesn’t spend most of his time writing in his pyjamas. “I’ll be ready to go the second you here, I promise.”

“Actually, it might be easier if you meet me at my office,” Eddie says reluctantly, and rolls his eyes as Richie brightens.

“Oh _really_? I thought you hated your work pals seeing me, Eds! Don’t they like to get all gossipy about me?” Richie straightens up and self-importantly adjusts an imaginary tie. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll scrub up nice for you. I’ll come suited and booted. Want me to bring a briefcase? That’ll impress them, right?”

“They all know what a slob you are,” Eddie sighs, because unfortunately, they do. 

They’d been so nice about Eddie coming out to them that Richie had offered to comp them all tickets to one of his gigs in thanks, which he had then used as an opportunity to thoroughly embarrass Eddie as they all beamed from the front row. 

He had delighted in telling the story of the time that Eddie went on a business trip for three days and Richie did not bother to shower or change out of the same pair of pyjamas the entire time he was away; this included his visit to Ben and Bev’s house, and the grocery shopping trip he undertook on the way to pick Eddie up from the airport. 

Eddie had been _appalled_ when he saw the state of him as he waited for Eddie in the terminal, and had refused to drive back home with him. He had taken a cab back to their apartment on his own, followed the whole way by Richie laughing and waving ecstatically at him from his own car.

He sighs, and rubs his temples as Richie grins, and then reaches out to prod him in the forehead. “Just meet me after work tomorrow, okay?”

“You sure?” Tomorrow is the day Eddie works late; he usually finishes at around eight in the evening, with his head buzzing with statistics and cases he needs to follow up on. He’s usually desperate to get home by the end of it, having the energy for nothing more than a quick supper and a wash before he rolls into bed with Richie.

Those nights, Richie has always filled the bath and set a meal out for him by the time he gets home. 

He really fucking loves him.

Eddie’s nose wrinkles at the thought of his colleagues gawping at him, but he nods and waves the lists at Richie again. “Yeah. We don’t have time to waste. We have a lot to get through.”

“Okay, sure,” Richie says, with a shrug. “Do I get to know what we’re doing?”

“Do you want to?” Eddie cocks his head. “Or d’you want it to be a surprise?”

Richie hesitates, then shrugs again. “Sure, why not? You can surprise me. What’s life without a little excitement, right?”

“I mean,” Eddie glances down at his list, “It’s not… Don’t get your hopes up too high?”

Richie laughs, and surges up suddenly, pressing a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips. “Eddie Spaghetti! It’s an evening with you, my dude! What else do I even need?”

***

Richie is waiting for him when Eddie finishes work the next day, as requested. He finds him mooching about in the lobby of his work building, bundled up in his winter coat and holding a polystyrene cup in his gloved hands. He beams when Eddie approaches, and presses a kiss to his lips, then pushes the cup into his hands.

“What’s this?”

“Soup! Italian wedding soup.” He shrugs as Eddie blinks at him. “I figured you must be starving, and I don’t know if whatever you’ve got planned has food built in, so…”

“It doesn’t,” Eddie says dumbly. His hands tighten on the cup, soaking up the heat given off by it, and he leans up to press another kiss to Richie’s lips, softer and slower. “Thanks, Rich. This was sweet of you.”

“Sweet?” Richie waggles his eyebrows. “It’s not supposed to taste _sweet_! Here, give it back, I’ll go ask for a refund!”

“It’s amazing to me that people keep paying to see you,” Eddie sighs. He links his hand with Richie’s, and walks him out of the door. “Like, fully amazing. If only they knew what I know – that you’ve never been funny in your life. Not even once.”

“Keep my dark secret for me,” Richie laughs, his eyes sparkling. “Don’t tattle on me, Eds, I’m begging! I’ll make it worth your while!”

“You better,” Eddie sniffs, and takes a mouthful of soup. It is delicious, and he revels in the warmth it spreads through him. 

They take the subway to Rockefeller Center, and wander hand-in-hand until the plaza’s towering, beautiful tree fills their vision. 

“Oh,” Richie says, as though the penny has just dropped, and they stand side by side to admire it in silence for a long moment. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Eddie murmurs, because it _is_ ; his eyes stray over the breath-taking display of bright lights and hanging boughs, until the gleaming star at the top claims his attention.

“I dunno. It’s kinda gaudy,” Richie says at his side, but Eddie doesn’t buy it for a moment. When he glances sidelong at him, his eyes are fixed on it, and there is a small smile curling at his lips. His eyes slide onto Eddie after a moment, and Eddie’s breath catches as he sees the reflection of the twinkling lights sparkle in his eyes. Richie pulls his phone from his pocket, and waggles it enticingly. “Selfie time?”

“Sure!”

They turn their backs to the tree, and Eddie tucks himself against his side as Richie slides an arm around him. He holds his phone up, those ridiculously long limbs coming in use to get them both centred with the tree shining behind them, and both of them beam into the camera.

Richie takes a picture, and then ducks down to press a kiss to Eddie’s temple, and quickly snaps another as Eddie’s face morphs into something between surprise and amusement. The angle is kind of skewed by Richie’s shift in position, and the tree looks as though it is leaning behind them as a result.

Eddie prefers it to the first one.

They send both to the group chat, and by the time they get home, they find themselves grinning as their friends respond with heart-eyed emojis and coos about them being too damn cute. 

They are. Eddie knows it, and he loves it.

Richie laughs as he shrugs his coat off. “Hey, what would you have done if you’d seen a lady, like, fucking _covered_ in pigeons back there?”

Eddie blinks, then shudders instinctively. “ _What the fuck_? Did you see – Richie! Did you see a woman get swarmed by pigeons?! Jesus Christ! The fucking germs on those things – god!”

Richie is only laughing harder as he rants, his hands flying through the air as he tries to shake off the image of pigeons descending on him. “Yeah, I saw her!” he giggles. “And she taught me the _real_ meaning of Christmas!”

“What?”

“Or – shit, was it friendship?” Richie settles as Eddie gapes at him. “I can’t really remember. I was always too focused on the possibilities involved in having an army of pigeons cover you. Like, could they lift her off the ground, do you think? Could pigeon-lady have theoretically been able to fly?”

“Richie, what the fuck?”

“And also, like, what are the legal implications of torturing two thieves instead of just calling the fucking police on them? That fucking kid is a psychopath, am I right?”

“What are you _talking about_?” shrieks Eddie, by now thoroughly rattled. 

Richie gives him a goggle-eyed look of astonishment. “What – _Home Alone_ , dude! The second one! It’s a movie! Didn’t you ever see it?”

“Yeah, this is the face of a guy who knows what you’re talking about,” Eddie splutters, pointing at himself. “I was worried you were planning some shit with hundreds of pigeons, or something! I was like, count me out, and also, I’m going to get you committed and then hosed off by a HAZMAT team! God! Use your fucking words!”

“I _used_ -”

“- Use words that aren’t ‘pigeon’!”

“I figured you’d know what I was talking about! It’s not exactly some indie flick, y’know? It’s _Home Alone 2_!” Richie cries again, throwing his hands up. “The one that happens in New York, dude! He meets a lady who hangs out with pigeons and she teaches him the power of friendship, or something, and also he beans those two guys with even more paint cans. It’s hilarious! You’ve really never seen it?”

“No!”

“Oh, man, we have to watch it,” Richie grins excitedly. “It’s so funny, man. Can we?”

“Uh,” Eddie’s voice softens. He pulls the neatly-folded lists from his pocket, and looks through them, but he already knows the answer; they already have so much to do that they really don’t have a spare minute. It’s already past the time Eddie usually goes to bed, and every evening until the day after Christmas is packed full of activities that google says they _have_ to do to have a perfect Christmas together.

He doesn’t actually have to say anything; Richie nods immediately, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s cool,” he says, and his voice is light, and he gives Eddie an easy smile. “We’re super busy, right?”

“There’s the day after Christmas?” Eddie suggests hesitantly, but even he doesn’t buy it.

Richie’s nose wrinkles. “Christmas movies the day after Christmas? Lame. No, it’s fine, honestly. We’ll just catch it next year, right? You’ve lasted this long without seeing it. I’m sure it can wait.”

His voice is carefree, and his shoulders give a blithe shrug as he speaks, but Eddie squirms guiltily regardless. Richie chuckles, and leans close to press a reassuring kiss to his lips. “Eds. It’s fine, I promise. That Culkin kid will wait for us.”

He squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, then bounces off towards the bathroom. “Want to share the shower?” he calls, and Eddie relaxes.

Still. He resolves to see if he can jiggle things around a bit, to find some room. Maybe they can split it in half, and watch it that way? He doesn’t want to let Richie down.

This is their first Christmas together, after all. He wants it to be perfect.

***

Richie meets him at the office again the next day, and because Eddie isn’t working late, several of his co-workers are there to see it. They all linger obnoxiously in the lobby as Eddie approaches, and he expects Richie to pull him into a kiss again, but he visibly hesitates as Eddie reaches him.

Eddie frowns, and pointedly closes the gap between them to plant a kiss on Richie’s lips. He valiantly ignores the whoop that comes from one of his co-workers, but it makes Richie dissolve into nervous giggles.

He shoots Eddie a sheepish look when they separate. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t know if you’d want me to, uh… I mean, I know you work with those guys, and they were all watching you march over here, and I didn’t want to, uh, make you -”

“- You’re cute when you ramble,” Eddie grins, his ire soothed by Richie’s clumsy attempts to be a considerate, and he presses another quick peck to his parted lips. 

Richie grins dizzily, and offers him his arm with a theatrical gesture. “May I?”

“You may not,” Eddie sighs. He wrangles Richie’s arm until he can link their hands together, and they walk past Eddie’s grinning, slightly starstruck colleagues with as much dignity as he can muster. Richie blows them a kiss as they go, which doesn’t really help, but Eddie does smirk as they laugh.

Their destination is a Christmas market that google suggested is the absolute best one in New York. Eddie abruptly realises, when they arrive, that he’s not the only person with access to google.

It is _packed_.

People mill around everywhere, with barely room between them to squeeze past, and while there is a choir singing distantly, further into the park, all Eddie can hear is awkward murmurs along the lines of, “excuse me,” and, “coming through,” and other exasperated mutters.

He tenses up immediately. His anxiety flares at the just the thought of pushing their way into the market.

He senses, rather than sees, Richie’s gaze settle on him, as his own eyes cannot look away from the bustling scene ahead of him. Richie’s hand tightens in his own, and Eddie knows his sudden discomfort has not gone unnoticed. “You sure you want to go in?” Richie asks lightly, and he immediately bristles.

He will _not_ be held back by his anxiety. He is stronger than it is.

“Can’t wait,” he all but snaps, and strides ahead, dragging Richie along behind him. 

He hears him chuckle, but otherwise say nothing. Still, he soon becomes aware that Richie has scooted closer, and remains firmly in Eddie’s space, a constant presence at his back. He is grateful for it; his closeness emphasises their small but tangible distance from other people, and provides a comfort that Eddie cannot voice.

He takes a deep breath when somebody bumps into him, and lets it out in a slow exhale as Richie tightens their fingers together, forcing both his nerves and his immediate irritation to settle.

The market stalls are, at least, appealingly picturesque, which goes some way towards making the effort of coping with the crowd feel worthwhile. Eddie manages to relax enough to snap a few pictures as they slowly mill their way through the market. 

He looks over stalls selling baked goods – shortbread, and gingerbread, and various pies and cakes and candies – and decides to treats the two of them to a cup of hot chocolate. He winces when he hears the price, which is considerably more than he would usually blow on a non-alcoholic drink.

But Richie beams when he hands it over, and proceeds to get whipped cream all over his nose in a way which makes Eddie laugh until tears prick at his eyes, and it all feels worth it. 

They continue their inspection of the market, but after seeing several stalls selling carved or glass ornaments, a thought strikes. “Shit, we’re supposed to put up a tree.”

“Supposed to?” Richie leans even closer and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder to speak into his ear. “Says who?”

“Says…” Eddie’s mind draws a blank. “Like. Society? Tradition, I guess?”

“Traditions can be whatever you want them to be, right?” Richie shrugs. “I dunno. You’re the neat-freak here – do you _want_ a tree in our apartment?”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles as he immediately pictures having to sweep up needles from now until New Year. He pictures getting home from Georgia and being greeted by a dead plant, rotting in the corner of the apartment. His brain conjures up the endless drip of sap onto the floor, and squirming bugs lurking among branches, and chemical pesticides, and who knows what else. 

He shudders.

“No,” he says firmly. “Fuck that. Definitely not.”

“You sure? What about a plastic one?”

“Where the hell would we store it?”

“Again, _you’re_ the neat freak. You tell me,” Richie snorts.

Eddie smirks, and nuzzles against him. “The top drawer of your wardrobe?” he suggests innocently, and revels in Richie’s squawk. “No?”

“There’s no room!”

“There’s isn’t? It’s a pretty big space.”

“Yeah – I mean – yeah, but it won’t fit a whole goddamn _tree_ , Eds!”

“Uh-huh.”

“C’mon, man!” Richie protests with a petulant whine. “That’s a perfectly believable statement about _any_ wardrobe!”

Chuckling, Eddie almost leads them past the next stall, before something on it catches his attention.

It is yet another stall selling hand-made ornaments, but while all the others have veered closer to traditional, classic designs, these are all more cartoony in style. 

He sees a Santa Claus ornament, his round belly barely covered by a colourful Hawaiian shirt, with sunglasses and a smear of sunscreen on his button nose. There’s an elf, its ears drooping and its eyes heavy-lidded as it clutches a half-empty bottle of wine. There are cheerful animals, donkeys and cows and goats, and gifts, and angels, and so many more.

What catches Eddie’s eye is a splash of green amongst it all. 

Side-by-side, he sees a pair of turtles, both sporting a bright, cartoon grin, with one leg raised in a wave, and a large pair of wings sprouting incongruously from each shell. One wears a Santa hat and a small white beard, and the other one has an elf hat with a pair of pointy ears poking out from beneath it. Both turtles’ feathered wings have been painted in light shades of brown and blue and grey.

“Look,” Eddie chuckles, and points them out to Richie.

He leans closer to squint at them, and laughs softly. “Cute,” he comments. “I guess tortoises have their own Saint Nick, huh? Santa in a half-shell?”

“Are you for real? You don’t get the joke? They’re turtles, with bird wings… C’mon, man!” Eddie scoffs when he takes in Richie’s quizzical expression. “They’re turtle doves! Like in the song?”

“Oh, sure, the, uh, the turtle dove song, right.” Richie raises his voice, and confidently warbles, “This is what it sounds like when turtle doves cry!”

“No!” Eddie protests through laughter. He clears his throat and, his voice more uncertain than Richie, sings, “Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree!”

“Oh! Well, that makes way more sense,” Richie chuckles. He glances sidelong at Eddie. “You like ‘em?”

“I guess I just like turtles,” Eddie says absently, turning his eyes back on the ornaments. They’re not something he’d usually be drawn to, but now he’s seen them, he finds he likes them. They’re pretty silly, but he’s into it. 

And he really does like turtles. He’s always found something very comforting about them, in a way he could not possibly explain.

He blinks when a hand comes into view and picks the ornaments up. He raises his eyes, and realises Richie has pulled his wallet out. “Oh! I didn’t mean -”

“- It’s my treat,” Richie says simply, and waggles his eyebrows at him. “Who needs a tree when you have pun-turtles, right? Besides, you can consider it partial repayment for the world’s most expensive hot chocolate.”

The lady running the stall wraps them carefully in tissue paper, and deposits them in a little box for safe keeping. She hands it to Richie, who hands it to Eddie. He leans in and presses a kiss to Richie’s cheek in gratitude.

He opens his mouth to thank him, but is interrupted when somebody squeals. 

Both he and Richie whirl towards the noise in surprise, and they find a small group watching them from a few feet away; three people, two guys and a girl, all of whom have their phones held up in front of them with huge smiles on their faces.

Eddie flushes as he realises each one of them has likely just taken a picture of him kissing Richie. “Uh?”

“I told you it’s him! It’s Trashmouth!” one of the guys exclaims. The other two look just as gleeful to see Richie; all three are staring at him, practically fizzing with excitement. 

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, hey, guys,” Richie says. He offers a smile that Eddie doesn’t believe for a moment, and raises his hand in a wave. “It’s me, yeah. Trashmouth right here.”

All three keep taking pictures as he talks, and Eddie bites back an irritated comment. He’s sure his displeasure will shine through in their pictures when they look back over them, and god knows he never actually _wants_ to make a scene.

That doesn’t seem to stop it from happening, but he can at least try to avoid it.

“Oh my god, this is awesome. We _love_ your stand up. We went to see you in L.A., before you moved here. I can’t believe we ran into you!” the girl says, her smile broad and genuinely excited. Her eyes flick onto Eddie, sparkling with curiosity. “Is this your boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says shortly. Richie has talked about him at length in his routines since they started dating, always with his blessing, so he isn’t entirely surprised to realise they’ve figured out who he is, but it still feels incredibly weird to be ‘recognised’. He offers a smile of his own, tight and brittle, and feels his fingers gripping the box hard. “Hi.”

“Awesome, hi,” one of the guys drawls. His smile broadens, and his eyes shine with mischief as he says, “Hey, where’s your fanny pack, dude?”

Eddie’s spine tightens in a sharp, heated jolt of shock, and Richie slings an arm around him quickly. His face darkens in response to Eddie’s discomfort.

“Look, dude, I know I talked about it, but you can’t just -”

“- I left it in nineteen eighty-nine, along with the last remnants of Richie’s wit,” Eddie says quickly.

Two things happen at once; all three burst into delighted laughter, and Richie’s hand rubs soothingly at his side. Something hot uncurls in Eddie’s chest with his touch.

“You guys want a selfie before we take off?” Richie offers, clearly trying to move the situation along, and Eddie is so very grateful he has him.

Eddie takes the picture for them, after muttering, “It’s not a selfie if you don’t take it yourself!” just to see Richie roll his eyes. 

Richie poses between his three fans, his arms flung around them and a huge grin on his face. Richie starts to make polite comments about needing to get back to their evening as Eddie hands the phone back to the girl, but all three just keep on talking to him.

It’s sweet, in a way, that they’re all clearly so jazzed to meet him, but Eddie finds his irritation rising as it becomes obvious that they’re not taking his hints; Richie is polite but vague as they fire question after question at him, and every time they tries to move away, they follow eagerly.

It’s ridiculous, but something about the little group trailing along beside them has Eddie’s anxiety spiking. Their voices are loud and enthusiastic enough to be heard over the low mutters of the crowd, and their excitement seems to be contagious; Eddie realises that several people around them have noticed Richie, and while nobody else sems to have recognised him, Eddie’s nerves are jangling at the thought that yet more people might start to gather around the two of them.

It’s stupid, but his brain latches onto the idea, and he can’t help but become more and more aware of the crowd pressing closer around them; of the way it seems to be getting louder and louder as their questions fly at Richie. What little space there is between them closes in around him, and he shrinks closer to Richie, his eyes darting fretfully around as he looks for an escape.

Eventually, he tries to go into his breathing exercises in the hope of calming himself, and a gasping wheeze comes from his chest. 

Richie’s eyes land on him immediately, and he holds a hand up. “Hey, listen, we really have to go,” he tells the group without hesitation, and while the genial cheer is not exactly gone from his voice, his tone is noticeably firmer. 

The trio stop in their tracks as Richie tugs Eddie closer to him. Another wheeze escapes him, and all three turn their attention to him, guilt suddenly written on their features. Eddie knows damn well that Richie has described him as an anxious asthmatic in his show. He wonders if they’re suddenly remembering as much.

Richie gives Eddie a concerned look, and he nods once, shakily, before Richie’s mouth sets into a determined line. 

“Bye, guys. Nice to meet you.” He gives the group one more broad smile, and then turns his back on them to usher Eddie through the crowd.

It feels like it takes forever to get out of the market. Eddie follows at Richie’s heels, the box tucked under his arm and his hand clenched tightly in Richie’s. His palm is slippery with sweat as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t carry an inhaler any more – he prides himself on not doing so, in fact – but at this moment he would give anything to take a huff of it.

Eventually, after what feels like hours, they emerge into a quieter area, and Richie spins to rest his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “You okay?” he asks, and there is a panicked sheen to his eyes.

Eddie nods, and manages to squeak out, “It was just… a lot.”

“I know. Hey, I know. You’re fine. Just breathe with me, okay?” Richie asks, his hands squeezing Eddie’s shoulders.

Eddie nods again, and the two of them fall silent, save for the whistling of Eddie’s airways as he does his best to mimic Richie’s slow, steady breathing. They have done this so many times before. He feels all of thirteen again, overwhelmed by the world and left helpless against the prison of his own lungs, until Richie offers an escape.

It takes a while. The world hustles unnoticed around them as they just breathe together. 

Richie does not let go of him once. 

Eddie closes his eyes, and focuses on nothing but the warmth of his hands on his shoulders, and tries to calm himself down.

Eventually, when he can take a breath without his chest protesting, he opens his eyes. “I’m good.”

“Yeah? Sure?”

“Sure.” He watches Richie look him over, his wide eyes darting over his face and focusing on the soft rise and fall of his chest for a moment, before finally meeting his gaze as Eddie tries for a reassuring smile. He feels suddenly exhausted. “Hey, I promise. I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Richie echoes, and pulls him into a hug with a shaky sigh. “Jeez. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean for – I tried to, like -”

“- I know,” Eddie says tiredly. “Hey, I know. You tried to get rid of ‘em, I know.”

“I don’t mean – okay, no, I _did_ try to do that, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” Richie takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely more than a mumble. “What I meant is, I didn’t want the people who come see me to think they can talk to you like that.” 

He pulls away from Eddie, and aims a hangdog look at him before his eyes drop to the floor, his cheeks flushed with shame. “That’s not cool. I’m sorry. I never meant… You’re not, like, the joke, when I tell stories about you. I promise.”

“Dude,” Eddie says softly, because he’s read over every word of stand-up Richie has written since they started dating, and signed off on all of the parts about him. “The fanny pack is absolutely a joke. I know that. It’s okay.”

“But it’s not!” Richie bursts. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and Eddie misses his touch immediately. “Only in, like, how goddamn much I loved it, y’know? I was _so fucking into_ that fanny pack, Eds! That’s the joke! Not _you_!”

“It’s fine,” Eddie says firmly. He forces Richie to meet his eyes, and lets a real smile spread across his face, hoping to reassure him. “You think I can’t handle some fucking kids? It’s okay, dude. Besides, I wouldn’t have let you put the fanny pack into your show at all if I couldn’t cope with some pushback from philistines who don’t know style when they see it,” he finishes airily, and something warm blooms in his belly as Richie bursts into startled, delighted laughter.

“You know what, Eds, you’re right,” he giggles, and the look he aims at Eddie is full of such fondness that it almost bowls him over. “Bev will have a line of ‘em out before you know it, yeah?”

“I mean, she can _try_ to duplicate my style, I guess,” sneers Eddie, and Richie is lost to laughter once again.

They head home after that, as neither of them are keen to head back into the market. Eddie is exhausted, and Richie is oddly subdued, forever glancing his way as though needing to reassure himself that he’s not about to start gasping for breath. 

Eddie had intended to suggest that they start watching _Home Alone 2_ when they finished up at the market, but by the time they’re back in the apartment, he really doesn’t have the energy left to muster up any enthusiasm for it. 

He lets Richie fuss over him instead, bearing his concern with as much grace as he can summon. Richie finds a tub of soup in the freezer, and heats it up, presenting it to Eddie with a shared grilled cheese. He watches him closely as he eats, and only seems to relax when Eddie eventually snaps at him for constantly hovering over him.

Eddie settles their new ornaments on their mantlepiece, and snaps a picture to send to the other Losers before he goes to bed. The market might have been kind of a nightmare, but it feels good to have even just a little decoration in the apartment. 

He presses a kiss to Richie’s lips, and trudges his way into the bedroom, already hoping that tomorrow evening’s Christmas efforts go better than today’s did.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. There is a _lot_ they need to get done if they’re going to have the perfect Christmas together. 

As lovely as the idea is, the thought of it is already wearing him out, and Eddie falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie’s office closes early the next day, turning them all out at lunchtime in the name of a festive treat, and Richie is again waiting to meet him. He does not hesitate to kiss him this time, even going so far as to produce a garishly artificial sprig of greenery to hold over their heads while he claims Eddie’s lips.

Eddie squints at it when they pull apart. “What is – is that holly?”

“It might be,” Richie says cheerfully. He lowers his hand to show Eddie a plastic plant clutched between his fingers, resplendent with the leaves a shade of green not found in nature, and the red paint peeling off the berries already. “I know, it’s meant to be mistletoe, but the joke shop didn’t have any left. But it still got me my smooch, right? It totally worked!”

“I kissed a grown man who spends time in joke shops,” Eddie sighs. He rubs his temples. “I do this to myself of my own free will. I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Your love for me is confusing and ridiculous,” Richie agrees, and leans in to press another kiss to his lips. “It’s crazy that you subject yourself to me. Please never think too hard about it, in case you come to your senses and leave?”

Eddie grins, and surges up to kiss him again, deep and filthier than he normally would in public, just to revel in the dizzy smile Richie gives him when he pulls away. “Never gonna happen,” he promises softly, and leads Richie towards today’s adventure.

They grab pretzels as they head towards Central Park, chatting and catching up on what they’ve missed in the few hours they’ve been apart. It’s all lovely, but Richie draws up short when he realises what Eddie has planned.

They watch the scene quietly for a moment, hand in hand as they watch a crowd of ice skaters make their way around a rink. It’s adorably picturesque; twinkling lights are strung above, casting multi-coloured shadows onto the gleaming white ice and the people skating on it. Some whirl their way effortlessly around, while some are slow or stumbling, but every person has a smile on their face. Carols play over the top of it all, tinny but festive, and everywhere Eddie looks, he sees people with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, all enjoying themselves.

Richie, however, seems less entranced.

“Ice skating?” he says, and there is uncertainty in his voice as he watches people skating merrily around in circles. Eddie glances at him, and sees his hesitance written plainly on his face before he realises Eddie is watching. As soon as he spots him, his face morphs into a bright smile. “Awesome!”

“Awesome, huh?” Eddie echoes sceptically. His heart sinks slightly as he takes in Richie’s reluctance. “C’mon, man. You look like someone just farted in your coffee.”

“Such evocative imagery!” Richie snorts. “Wow, Eds, I had no idea you were such a wordsmith! You wanna swap jobs? You tell the stories on stage, and I’ll horrify people with statistics about why they shouldn’t stick their dicks in electrical sockets?”

“I don’t – what do you think I – most people don’t need to be _told_ how risky that is!” Eddie groans, but he recognises deflection tactics when he sees them. He elbows him lightly in the side, and fixes a stern look on him. “C’mon. What do you actually think? I know you don’t think it’s awesome. I’m not an idiot.”

“Eddie my love, I would never – never! – try to suggest -”

“- Stop trying to bullshit me!” Eddie protests, and Richie quietens immediately, his expression chagrined as he drops his eyes to the muddy ground. Eddie softens his tone, and squeezes his hand. “Just tell me the truth, okay? You secretly hate ice skating, don’t you?”

“It’s not that – I wouldn’t say I _hate_ it,” Richie hedges. He looks sidelong at Eddie. “D’you remember us skating as kids?”

“Yeah. Every winter, in the Barrens,” Eddie offers. The lake in the Barrens had frozen over every January, and all of the Losers would head out with their skates to flail around on it together, laughing and taking spills and thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Or so he had thought. Looking at Richie’s screwed-up face, he suspects Richie doesn’t have quite the same fondness for those memories as he does. “You didn’t like it?”

“I guess it just wasn’t my favourite winter funtime activity? Give me a sledge over skates any day.”

“How come?”

“Man, I dunno,” Richie sighs. Then he pointedly stretches his arms out, wiggling them like they’re made of noodles, and shrugs expansively. “Maybe ‘cause I was never fully in control of my own limbs at any point back then? They never did what I wanted. I was clumsy enough when I _wasn’t_ on ice.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes, because now he thinks back, Richie has a point. The seven of them were always at least a little bit of a mess of bruises, even the always-careful Stanley, because it was so easy to get carried away with their games, and they spent most of their time hanging out in quarries or woodland. Loose rocks would send them hurtling. Roots were forever catching at their ankles as they ran. 

It never held them back. There was always a friendly hand held down to help you up, and Eddie would patch up any injuries sustained with the well-stocked first-aid kit contained in his fanny pack, and their games resumed with little fanfare.

Richie, though, being in possession of limbs that seemed to grow an inch overnight and the worst eyesight of anybody Eddie knew, seemed to be forever taking spills. Factoring skates and ice into the matter had inevitably resulted in him taking more than his fair share of tumbles. It’s kind of a miracle he never broke anything.

Still. That was then. Surely now that he’s an adult, with a modicum of control over his own body… He can’t be as bad any more, right? He schools his face into an encouraging, hopeful smile. “So you don’t want to try again now, then?”

Richie hesitates again, which really says it all. “It’s fine!” Eddie says quickly before Richie can respond, despite the creeping disappointment that settles in his stomach. “We don’t have to! I just thought – well, I mean, I googled, and it said -”

“- That this the perfect way to spend Christmas?” Richie finishes, an eyebrow arched, and Eddie offers a short nod. 

“Yeah, but we don’t have to. I promise. I just thought it might be fun.”

Richie sighs, and looks speculatively back at the rink. His eyes are fixed on a kid, who can’t be more than four or five, skating happily at the side of their mother. “Look at them,” he murmurs, and his mouth screws up in determination. “I mean, if a fucking baby can do it, I probably can, right?”

Eddie’s heart fills with warmth. “You want to try?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, why not?”

“We don’t have to,” Eddie says lightly, but his hand is tight on Richie’s, and he bounces excitedly on his heels. 

Richie laughs, apparently buoyed by his enthusiasm, and tugs him closer to the rink. “It’s fine! I want to! Maybe ice skating is, like, my white whale, right? I’m gonna Ahab the shit out of this!”

Eddie briefly wonders what actually happens to Captain Ahab in _Moby Dick_ , having never read it. Then he dismisses the thought from his mind, and follows after Richie with an excited spring to his walk.

Richie marches up to the person hiring out the skates full of bravado, and before too long, is teetering on the blades with his arms held awkwardly out in an attempt to steady himself. Eddie, much steadier on his own skates, helps him towards the ice even as a voice in the back of his head ominously whispers, _‘This is dangerous.’_

He shouts it down dismissively. This is their first Christmas together, and Eddie is determined that it will be perfect. He’s done his research, and he’s very happy with the plan he’s put together. He will _not_ let his anxiety get in the way of it.

Besides, Richie seems determined to try his best, and Eddie cannot help but feel his heart melt at the sight of him carefully making his way towards the ice. He’s sure he’ll be fine once he gets his confidence up. And he’ll help with that however he can. 

Initially, Richie inches his way around the rink with one hand clutching the boards, and the other holding Eddie’s hand in a death grip. Eddie skates along beside him, his voice low and soothing as he murmurs reassuring platitudes about how amazingly Richie is doing. 

He pointedly glares at a pair of teenage boys who lap them three times while they creep their way around the rink once, turning back to aim smug grins at Eddie while Richie’s legs try to head in opposite directions for the thousandth time. They seem to be doing everything they can to emphasize how easy this is for them in comparison to Richie; one performs an undeniably impressive spin that leaves Eddie’s teeth gritted together as they effortlessly skate away.

Richie, at least, doesn’t seem to notice their mocking. Instead, his eyes are fixed desperately on the ice, as though he thinks that by watching his feet he can control them more easily. 

If anything, it seems to be hindering him, as Eddie has to forcibly stop him from shuffling into other people more than once. Still, no matter how often Eddie coaxes him into trying to look up, his eyes invariably end up darting back to his clumsy feet. 

When they have completed one shaky loop, Eddie lets out a whoop of excitement. “Hey, there you go!” he beams. “Well done!”

“You don’t have to patronise me, Spaghetti,” Richie scoffs, but he still wears a pleased smile as he slumps against the side. 

“Patronising? Who’s patronising? I’m genuinely praising!” Eddie protests. He grins, and squeezes Richie’s shoulder. “You got around without falling! You’re amazing!”

“Without falling _yet_ , you mean,” Richie chuckles. “I’m living on borrowed time. I know it, you know it, hell, that baby we saw probably knows it!”

Eddie shakes his head. “You’re improving! C’mon, let’s go around again. Why don’t you try just holding onto me, this time?” he suggests, and watches Richie’s smile fall.

Still, he nods after a moment, and levers himself upright with difficulty. His legs take the opportunity to try and escape again, and his windmilling arms struggle to regain his balance. Eddie hurriedly swoops in to grab him by the waist, and he manages to remains upright, though it’s a close call.

He expects Richie to try to back out, but he looks at Eddie, and sets his jaw. “Let’s fucking do this,” he declares, and weathers the glare from an outraged man with a very small child with as much dignity as can be mustered in a bright yellow bobble hat.

It is slow going, slower even than their first loop, but though Richie is wobbly, they make it around unscathed once more. Eddie is delighted, and tells Richie as much, and Richie seems proud of himself, even as their hands are practically fused together by how tightly he’s clinging to him. 

He skates to a stop in front of Richie as they finish their second lap, and aims a bright smile at him. “You ready to try on your own?” he suggests, and Richie hesitates for only a second before he nods.

“Sure. Right. It’s easy, right? I’ve come this far, so… I can probably do it. Right?”

“Are you kidding? You’ve got this! You’re practically a pro!”

“I’ve got this,” Richie echoes, and drops his eyes to the hand holding Eddie’s. It takes a moment, but eventually, he loosens his grip.

Eddie skates backwards a little way, remaining within arm’s reach but leaving a space around Richie, and he watches him stand in place for a long moment. His knees are knocked together, and his arms are held out stiffly, but his mouth is curled in determination. 

Eddie holds his breath as Richie tentatively follows after him, his movements jerky and awkward, but he remains upright as he moves into Eddie’s space.

He grins, apparently delighted. “Fucking check me _out_ , dude! I feel like I’m flying!”

“You’re doin’ it, Peter!” Eddie laughs in return. He puts a little more distance between them to encourage him to keep going, and he seizes the opportunity to take in the image of Richie, beaming and pink-cheeked and _his_ , and feels like _this_ is what Christmas must really be about.

Google was right.

And then one of the asshole teens who had previously leered so smugly at them eats shit, and barrels into Richie at top speed from the side. Richie, with his eyes on his skates, does not see him coming. 

The collision happens so quickly that Eddie is left grasping at thin air as Richie falls with a startled shriek. Eddie watches his arms fly out to try and grab onto anything to keep himself upright, but nothing is within reach, and all it means is that Richie is unable to brace the fall with his hands. He lands heavily on his side with a groan, and the teenager collapses on top of him.

For a moment which stretches out far longer than should be possible, Richie lies completely still. 

Eddie’s brain spirals immediately, automatically assuming the worst; he pictures a puddle of blood spreading over the ice beneath his head, a skate jammed deep into bone, severed fingers littering the rink, and a thousand other catastrophic outcomes.

Then Richie lets out a strangled groan, and Eddie finally exhales in a tight rush.

The kid scrambles in an attempt to get off Richie, his panicked limbs flailing, but before he can escape Eddie fists a hand tightly in his coat and yanks him upright. “Are you for-fucking-real?!” he yells into his alarmed face. “What the fuck are you doing! Are you trying to get somebody killed?”

“Wha – no!” the kid half-laughs, his eyes wide and startled. He’s breathing hard, but there’s no blood anywhere Eddie can see, and his laughter is high and shrill. He sounds simultaneously shocked and terrified. Eddie’s hand tightens in his coat, and he gives him an instinctive shake as his own anxiety rattles desperately around his head. “I’m sorry, dude, I – I didn’t mean -”

“- He could’ve been seriously hurt!” Eddie shouts, indicating Richie. The kid stares back at him, eyes suddenly watery, and Eddie softens with a sigh, and releases him. “So could you, fucknuts,” he adds reluctantly.

Richie rolls onto his back and squints up at the two of them. “Fuck, dude, you got a tackle like a freight train,” he moans, before grinning brightly. “Who the fuck taught you how to skate, Banana Heels? _Me_?”

“Sorry – I’m sorry!” the kid stammers, his earlier bravado apparently having fled. Eddie can see the other teenager staring wide-eyed at them from a few feet away, apparently frozen in place. His eyes are fixed on Richie’s face, open wide in shock. 

“I’d appreciate the apologies more if they turned into helping me up,” Richie suggests around a breathless laugh, and holds his arms pointedly towards Eddie and the kid. “’Cause I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m getting upright on my own. Unless you want me to just crawl off the ice like a wounded soldier leaving the battlefield? I’ll do it, man. I’ll even shake my little tushie as I go, if it gets me off here. I keep thinking somebody’s gonna skate right over me. I could lose an ear to somebody’s skates, man! I _need_ my ears! They balance out my forehead!”

“There’s no balancing that,” Eddie says dumbly, but he collects himself enough to grab one of Richie’s hands. The teen takes hold of the other, and between them, they manage to manoeuvre him upright, and get him off the rink. 

The kid aims a hangdog look at them as he edges away. “Um,” he says, which seems to be all he can manage. Richie throws his head back and laughs, the sound gleeful and genuinely amused rather than mocking, and Eddie’s heart melts. 

“If you’re not already playing hockey then you should be,” he grins. “You’d be a fucking demon to face up against, dude. I hate to think how much scarier you’d be with a goddamn stick in your hand!”

“Just be more careful, okay?” Eddie mutters, his anger relenting in the face of Richie’s good cheer. The kid nods in some relief, and quickly vanishes back onto the rink. Eddie watches his friend skate after him, yelling something frantically. 

They unlace their skates in silence. They do not talk at all until they’ve walked away from the rink, and Eddie pulls Richie down onto a park bench. His hands flutter over him, pressing at his arms and sides and chest, and Richie weathers it all with a gentle smile.

“I’m fine,” he tells him lightly.

“You’re sure?” Eddie takes his head in his gloved hands, looking anxiously into his eyes for any sign that they might be unfocused, or struggling to dilate, or refusing to contract, or, or, or – “Because concussions can be serious, man, like, they can have life-long consequences sometimes, and -”

“- I don’t have a concussion,” Richie says patiently.

“That’s not a thing you would _know_!”

“It totally is,” Richie says, and he shifts awkwardly, stifling a groan. “I didn’t even hit my head, man. I landed on my side.”

Eddie’s hands drop to move over his torso through his coat, and Richie does not stop him. “What if you’ve broken a bone?” he asks instead, aware that he’s rambling as Richie’s eyebrows draw into a frown, but unable to stop himself. “If you have, you need to have it properly set, so we should get you to the ER.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m just one big bruise, Eds. Nothing worse.”

“But you can’t be sure – what if you’ve broken a rib? They can be dangerous, man! Do you want a pneumothorax?” he demands desperately, his voice shaking, and Richie just blinks at him. 

When he speaks, his voice is soft, and lightly teasing, but so, so patient. “Well, jeez, Eds, _do_ I? I don’t have a clue. I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s a punctured lung, Rich!”

“Oh! Well, then, nah, I’m good,” Richie chuckles. He raises a gloved hand to cup Eddie’s cheek, and he feels his thumb brushing soothingly over his cheek. He raises his chin a bit, and forces Eddie’s eyes to stop darting all over and to meet his gaze instead. “Hey. I’m fine, okay? For realsies. I promise.”

“You don’t _know_ -”

“- Yes, I do,” Richie says soothingly. He gets up, and pointedly turns in a circle, flailing both arms and legs as he grins. “See? Nothing broken _here_ , no sir! Could I do this if I wasn’t completely intact?”

“You’re completely something,” Eddie mutters, but something about Richie’s ridiculous jigging settles him. 

Beneath it all, beneath the rushing current of his anxiety, down where it really matters, he trusts him completely. He knows Richie would tell him if something was wrong, _really_ wrong, rather than just playing the fool to calm him down.

Actually, he’d probably have more cause to worry if Richie _was_ taking this seriously.

He sighs, and forces himself to at least start to wrestle back his anxiety, before he gets up from the bench. “Man, google didn’t say anything about asshole teenagers,” he mutters, and Richie lets out a snort of laughter.

“Oh, man, we have such different experiences on the internet! I usually can’t _escape_ from asshole teenagers online!”

As they walk out of the park, Richie absently pulls his phone out to check something or other, before he abruptly starts laughing so hard that he has to sit down. Eddie watches in astonishment as he laughs until he cries, and then takes his phone from him when Richie holds it out, too caught up in his giggle fit to offer any explanation.

It’s open to a twitter, and shows a tweet that was posted a few minutes ago.

_‘so my bro thinks the guy i just vibe checked in central park was actually u @Trashmouth dunno if hes right but if it was DUDE please don’t let ur boyfriend kill me hes fucking terifying sorry again glad i didnt kill u ur pretty funny’_

Richie only laughs harder when Eddie opens the camera and snaps a picture of himself with his features schooled into a menacing glare, and allows him to post it as a wordless response to the tweet. 

The kid likes it immediately, and Eddie grins to himself as the last remnants of his anxiety melt away in the face of Richie’s delighted laughter.

So maybe ice skating hadn’t turned out to be the perfect way to celebrate Christmas after all. He’s pretty sure Richie will be more bruise than person before too long. 

But the way his laughter wraps around Eddie like a warm blanket... _that_ feels perfect.

***

Eddie leads the way back to the apartment, reading and re-reading his final list as they go. “So, I have a job for you,” he says as they enter.

He senses, rather than sees, Richie waggling his eyebrows and offering a lascivious smirk, as he keeps his eyes on his list. “Not that kind of job,” he adds absently, and grins as Richie whines immediately.

“Aw, man! Worst Christmas _ever_!”

“Keep that up and it’ll be the worst 2020 ever,” Eddie warns. “You’ll get none of _those_ jobs at _all_.”

Richie mimes zipping his lips shut hurriedly, and Eddie cannot help but grin at his enthusiasm. “So whaddya need me to do, Spaghetti?”

“Would you book tickets for us to go see _The Nutcracker_ tonight?” Eddie asks. He watches Richie shrug off his jacket, not bothering to remove his own as he waves his paper through the air. “While I go get everything we need for Christmas dinner?”

Richie’s eyebrows draw together faintly, and his lips purse. His eyes follow the movement of the list through the air. “That’s what that is?” he asks. “A shopping list?”

“Sure.” Eddie holds it out, and Richie takes it, but Eddie narrates it to him anyway. “Turkey, obviously, and potatoes, and stuffing, and carrots and parsnips, and brussels sprouts are kind of obligatory, I guess, and they do this kind of batter pudding thing in Britain that google thinks we should try?”

“Okay – I – Eddie,” Richie says, and he shoots Eddie a significant look. “You know it’s Christmas Eve, right?”

“You’re the one who struggles to remember what day it is, idiot.”

“Look, they all roll into one when you work at home. I know for a fact Bill is just as bad as me,” Richie shrugs, but he hands the list back pointedly. “Babe. If you wanted a turkey, you probably should have got one days ago.”

A gnawing itch makes itself at home in Eddie’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Well, like, what kind do you want?”

“Well. Organic, _obviously_ , and free range, with no antibiotics -”

“ – No, I mean, frozen or fresh?” Richie chuckles. “Frozen ones will take, like, at least an entire fucking day to defrost, and then another few hours to cook, so it’ll probably end being Christmas midnight snack instead of Christmas dinner, by the time we get all that started?”

“Oh.” Eddie shrugs. “So fresh, then.”

“If they have any left,” Richie goes on. He points into thin air, vaguely indicating the general direction of the grocery store down the street. “I went out to get milk this morning, and their fridges were all completely bird-free. You might struggle to get hold of one at this point, Eds. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Eddie says again. The gnawing feeling in his stomach grows, opening up into a sinking pit. “Well, I… I’ll call around some butchers, right? There’s probably one _somewhere_?”

“One you’re actually willing to eat? You got pretty specific standards, bud.”

“This is New York! I can’t be the only person in New York who wants their meat to be fucking decent, man!”

“Okay,” Richie says slowly. He smiles after a moment, the expression full of fondness, and heads for his laptop. “Okay, sure. You do that, and I’ll book – what was it? _Crack Deez Nutz_?”

“Has your brain ever left your teens?” Eddie huffs, instinctively resorting to bickering in an effort to cover up his growing panic. “It’s _The Nutcracker_ , though I know you know that. Philistine.”

“It’s a ballet, right?” Richie asks vaguely. “Sweet. Lotsa tights action in store for Trashmouth tonight. Can’t wait.”

Richie falls into silence as he types, and Eddie takes the opportunity to turn to google yet again. 

This time he looks up the numbers of butchers in New York, filtering by review, and scrolling past those who don’t meet his personal standards.

The list is not exactly short, but he’s still a little worried. He can’t have messed up this badly, surely? He can’t have fucked up the first Christmas he’s ever tried to organise to the extent that they won’t even end up with dinner?

He sighs shakily, and starts calling people. 

Richie is right. Every person who answers has similar information to impart, though their tones range from cheerful to apologetic to scathing; if he wanted a top-quality fresh turkey, he should have arranged it _weeks_ ago.

By the time he is about to frantically call the sixth shop on his list, which is by now straying into New Jersey, Richie lets out a snort of disbelief. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and Eddie looks up.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure about this?” Richie asks, vaguely indicating his laptop. “This whole ballet thing, I mean?”

Eddie nods. “The article I found on google said -”

“- Because these are the prices,” Richie says grimly, and turns his laptop to face Eddie. His jaw drops at the figures he sees on the screen.

“ _What_? Holy shit! Wait, are you looking at front row seats? ‘Cause we don’t need to -”

“- Nope. These are the prices for balcony seats. Hell, some of them are behind a fucking pillar! Prices like that for seats with restricted viewing! If I wanted not to be able to see something I’d just take my fucking glasses off, man! That’s _free_!”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes again, stunned.

“How’re you getting on?” Richie asks, and leans over to glance at his phone. His eyebrows rise as he sees the address Eddie is looking at. “Oof. That’s, like, at least a two-hour drive, Eds. Seriously?”

“Yeah, but,” Eddie says, and he knows he’s whining. “I need tomorrow to be _perfect_!”

“Okay – can we – I need to call a time out,” Richie sighs. He shuts his laptop with a loud click, and sets it carelessly to one side, and that same gnawing sensation in Eddie’s stomach becomes even deeper.

“What?”

“We have to talk about this whole Christmas thing, man,” he says, and holds his hands up as Eddie’s face falls. “Hey, whoa! It’s okay, okay? I just want to talk about it, Eds. I promise.”

“You hate it, don’t you?” Eddie mumbles, and slumps back tiredly. He covers his face in his hands, feeling a flush of shame burning in his cheeks. “You’ve hated this whole thing. I fucked it up. It was meant to be perfect for our first Christmas together, but I planned it all wrong, and you hated it, and I – I stressed you out, and made you -”

“Hey, stop,” Richie says quickly. He feels his hand press onto his thigh, squeezing and then stroking in soothing circles. “I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed the things we’ve done so far. That tree was beautiful, man.”

“But you hated the market.”

“I didn’t hate the market. I hated what the market did to you,” Richie says, and his voice is soft in the quiet between them. Eddie feels his hands move from his thigh to close around his wrists, and he gives them a hopeful tug. “Hey, c’mon. Lemme see your face. I’m, like, bereft without it, dude.”

“You’re, like, a moron,” Eddie echoes, but he lets his hands drop after a moment, and finds Richie grinning fondly at him. 

“There he is!” he trills, and takes the opportunity to pinch Eddie’s flushed cheek. Then he settles, and schools his features into something more open and encouraging. “The market was neat, honestly. Even if that person selling hot chocolate totally ripped you off hardcore, our turtles are super cute, right?”

Eddie just frowns at him as guilt courses through him. “Yeah, but they’re not worth you getting stressed out, man. And don’t try to deny it, because I _know_ you were stressed afterwards. You were kind of freaking out about me having a, a panic attack, weren’t you?”

Richie’s hand tightens on his thigh, and he nods after a moment. “Yeah. Okay, so it was kinda stressful. But that’s not your fault, Eds!”

“Of course it is! I should’ve – should’ve looked into how busy it’d be, or -”

“- I don’t want you to have to live your life like that,” Richie scowls. “Look, so we both kinda freaked out a bit. We couldn’t have known that it’d be that busy, or that those people would start following us around. Next year, we’ll just know to go earlier, right? And I’ll just… fuckin’ wear a ski-mask, or something!”

He’s chuckling at his own joke, but a small bubble of hope swells in Eddie’s chest. “Wait, next year?”

“Next year,” Richie says firmly, and grins encouragingly at him. “It was pretty fun for a while, and there was no harm done, right? I bet if we’d gone when it was quieter it would’ve been awesome the whole time, so, like, we’ll learn for next year. I liked it, until it did a number on you! I promise!”

“Okay. So what about the ice skating?” Eddie asks hesitantly.

Richie laughs. “Not my favourite,” he admits freely, shifting and groaning as his bruises no doubt protest. “Still. We got some chucks out of it, huh?”

“I guess,” Eddie says, with the ghost of a laugh, but it vanishes after a moment. “But…? You wanted a time out. What did you want to say?”

“Okay, so we’ve had fun so far but now, like… what’re we doing?” Richie asks, and he does not sound accusatory, or angry, but confused. He indicates his laptop. “Do _you_ like ballet enough to spend hundreds of dollars on it?”

“Uh… Well…”

“Yeah, thought not. Me neither. And do you really want to spend two fucking hours driving to Jersey to get a turkey? Do you like turkey _that_ much?”

“I… no. I, uh. I guess not?”

“So why are we doing this?” Richie asks. His thumb strokes over the inside of Eddie’s wrist, and he fixes a perplexed gaze on him. “I get that you want us to have the perfect first Christmas together, which, like, yeah, you’re the sweetest, Eds, honestly.”

“But?” Eddie presses hesitantly. He turns his hand over to clasp Richie’s, and Richie squeezes it in return.

“But if we’re just doing things because google said we should, not because we want to, then _whose_ perfect Christmas are we having, dude? Because as fun as it’s been so far, this isn’t _my_ idea of perfect. And I don’t think it’s yours, either. Right?” 

His voice is filled with the kind of patience Eddie would have claimed he could not possibly possess before they started dating. But since they got together, he has learned that Richie has a surprisingly gentle touch when it comes to Eddie’s emotional issues. 

He just tries his best to replicate it in return, and hopes he doesn’t fuck up too badly. 

Richie deserves better than that. 

Eddie stares back at him, and nods slowly. “Okay. No, I guess it’s not. But… but where does that leave us? What the hell do we do if not all of this? We’re both clueless about Christmas, right?”

“Man, what does that matter!”

“What do you mean?”

“Fuck the ‘perfect’ Christmas! Fuck google! And fuck whatever website you found. Look, let’s just go with what feels right, yeah?”

Eddie frowns, completely lost. “What do you mean?”

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Richie urges. He raises Eddie’s hand to kiss the back, and waggles his eyebrows at him ridiculously. His eyes are sparkling behind his glasses. “Don’t think about what somebody says you should do, or have to do. What do you actually _want_ to do, Eds? C’mon, fuck what everybody else thinks. What would make _your_ Christmas perfect?”

Eddie watches him for a long moment. And then, slowly, he puts his phone down.

What _does_ he want to do? 

When it comes down to it, the past few days have been fun, but between work and the activities he’s organised, Eddie is kind of exhausted. The first thing that comes to him, when he considers what he would _really_ like to do, is sleep.

“I want… I kind of really want to sleep late,” he says hesitantly, and Richie beams at him.

“Hell yeah, man! Great start! We’ll snuggle in bed all freaking morning if you want! C’mon, what else?”

“I want,” he murmurs, and then stops. He shoots Richie a sheepish grin, and reaches out to thumb over the corner of his mouth apologetically. “I want to watch that movie with you.”

“What movie?” Richie frowns, then brightens excitedly. “ _Home Alone 2_? Really?”

“Yeah. And the first one, too. It just makes sense, right? I’m… Richie, I’m so sorry I said we didn’t have time. That was pretty damn shitty of me, huh? I want to make time, for you.”

“You don’t have to do it just for me, dude. That’s, like, the opposite of what I just said.”

“No, it’s for me, too, I promise! I love watching movies with you.” He aims a hopeful expression at Richie, shamelessly busting out the puppy-dog eyes he knows Richie has no defence against. “Why don’t we have a movie marathon? We could… we could stay in our pyjamas, and have popcorn, and maybe have a drink, and watch a few Christmas movies?”

“Shit, dude, now you’re talking my language,” Richie groans, and surges closer to press a kiss to his lips as Eddie laughs in surprise. “Keep going! C’mon, what about dinner?”

Eddie’s face falls. “I don’t know – I don’t think I can get hold of the traditional -”

“- Forget tradition,” Richie snorts. “Most traditions are bullshit, dude. Hell, they’re different everywhere! Yesterday I told Stan that we were doing all this, right, and you know what he told me?”

“What?” Eddie asks, relaxing with Richie’s chatter.

“Get a load of this - he told me they eat KFC for Christmas dinner in Japan, man! Is that not the best fucking thing you ever heard? If an entire nation can do _that_ , I think the two of us can do whatever the hell we want, dude! So, seriously, think about it. You can have anything you want! What do _you_ want our Christmas dinner to be?”

Eddie falls silent for a moment, considering his options, before he laughs sheepishly as his stomach issues a hungry growl. “Fuck, man, now that you got the idea in my head, it’s all I can think about.”

“What?” Richie frowns, before excitement dawns on his face. “Oh, shit! You want Colonel Sanders to climb down our chimney? You want eggnog made with eleven herbs and spices?”

“Gross,” Eddie chuckles. “ _You_ can have that. I just want some freaking chicken.” He picks up his phone, and double-checks the opening hours of the KFC a few blocks away, and his excitement grows. “That one not far from us is open tomorrow! We could go pick it up whenever. Hell, we could even get it delivered, then we don’t have to change out of our pyjamas!”

“Eddie,” sighs Richie, so suddenly serious that it makes his stomach clench. He fixes Eddie with a frown, but his eyes are gleaming as he says, “Just because _society_ says pyjamas are strictly indoors clothing doesn’t mean you have to go along with it. Have you learned nothing from me?”

“I’ve learned that you’re a gross slob!” Eddie laughs, and throws himself at Richie to kiss him soundly despite it being true.

He feels like a weight has left his shoulders when he eventually leaves the house to pick up some popcorn, and a few snacks to go with it, and some of the ridiculously sugary cookie-based cereal Richie loves, because why not? It’s Christmas, after all. If he can’t indulge him at Christmas, then when can he?

When he spots a display with all the fruit and spices required to mull wine, he can’t resist adding them to his cart, alongside a couple of very nice bottles of wine. He pays, and then his phone pings, and reminds him to swing by Bev and Ben’s place to collect Richie’s gifts.

As he heads home, he hums along with the radio as it blasts cheesy festive tunes, and cannot stop grinning.

Richie is right. Fuck turkey. Fuck ballet! _Double fuck_ google, and its shitty suggestions.

He can’t wait for _their_ perfect Christmas day.

***

They don’t set an alarm, so Eddie wakes later than he usually would, and has a brief moment of panic when he sees the time. He reaches instinctively to grab his phone from the bedside table, struggling slightly because Richie is sprawled up against his side, and Eddie has to lean over him to reach it. He doesn’t want to wake him, but he’s sure he must have a million missed calls from his workplace, trying to figure out where the hell he is.

And then his brain catches up with reality, and he remembers that it’s Christmas, that he’s on holiday, and that it is perfectly all right for him to sleep past nine a.m. for once.

He flops back in bed and rubs a hand over his face with a soft laugh, amused by his own sleepy idiocy. Richie snuffles beside him, but settles when Eddie runs a soothing hand over his hair. 

He considers going back to sleep, but his mind is already whirring, and Eddie knows himself well enough to realise that he’s already past the point at which sleep would find him again.

In fact, he realises as he shifts beneath the blankets, part of him is _absolutely_ wide awake, and raring to go. 

He flushes as he squirms restlessly, biting his lip at the torturous friction of his underwear over his stiff, heated cock, and his eyes shift to glance sidelong at Richie. 

He could just… sort himself out. Sneak off to the bathroom, and quickly deal with the situation, and let Richie sleep on.

Or…

He curls up on his side, shifting closer to Richie, and doesn’t bother to stifle the groan that escapes him as he moves. His overheated skin is prickly and sensitive, and the touch of the blankets is almost torturous atop him, so he kicks them off.

Richie sleeps on. He’s not deeply asleep, Eddie suspects from the light rise and fall from his chest, and he doesn’t seem to be dreaming, which is always a bonus. He’s wearing a shirt and boxers, and when Eddie carelessly pushes the blankets down, he realises his shirt is caught up under his arms. Eddie lets his heated gaze linger over Richie’s body, noting the bruises that are indeed starting blossom across his skin. 

He feels a brief stab of guilt, before he firmly reminds himself that Richie is not mad at him. That Richie does not blame him for some random kid barrelling into him, and that he has, in fact, been laughing about it ever since. 

Then, as Eddie’s eyes rove over Richie’s exposed skin, he gives in to temptation, and reaches out to touch him.

He keeps his touch gentle, wary of his bruises and stroking delicately over the places they have marked. He trails his hand over Richie’s chest, fingers spread as he palms over his collarbone then moves down, the heel of his palm rubbing over one nipple and his fingertips trailing through his smattering of dark hair. 

His eyes fix on his nipple as it firms up beneath his touch. He does not even try to ignore the urge to lean in and ghost his lips over it gently. It hardens beneath his touch, becoming a dusky pink as he traces the tip of his tongue around it then blows ever so lightly over the now slick flesh. 

Eddie smirks when Richie shifts and sighs in his sleep. He blows over it again, then lets his teeth close gently over his nipple, tugging just a little and worrying at the delicate skin teasingly until Richie lets out a sleepy whine.

His hand moves down further then, his fingertips spreading and his nails digging lightly in to his skin, just enough to see Richie shiver as he traces down his ribs to his belly. 

Eddie loves Richie’s body; loves that he’s tall, and broad, with wide shoulders and long legs, but he also adores that he’s got a gorgeous softness to him, too, at his belly and his thighs and his chest. He likes gently digging his fingers in to his flesh and feeling both the yielding warmth of his body, and the wiry strength beneath it all.

More than anything, Eddie _loves_ seeing the way his touch makes Richie melt. 

As his hand traces lower, his nails scratching lightly at the trail of hair over his belly, just shy of the waistband of his boxers, Eddie leans up to press a kiss to his parted lips. 

Even asleep, Richie follows Eddie’s lead. 

He leans blindly into his touch after a moment, his lips already moving with Eddie’s, and he lifts his head to chase his touch when Eddie pulls back just a few inches. Eventually, as his fingers sweep over Richie’s soft belly, and his nails leave teasing scratches in their wake, Richie’s eyes flutter open.

He blinks, and falls back, and his face scrunches up until he can force his eyes to focus on Eddie’s face. “Morning,” Eddie murmurs, his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips curled into a smirk as he lightly brushes his knuckles over Richie’s underwear-clad cock, and Richie groans in response.

“W’s goin’ on?” he mumbles. He scrubs at his eyes, squinting and barely awake, and Eddie passes the time by letting his fingertips dip ever so slightly into the waistband of his boxers until Richie is blinking at him. 

As soon as he has his attention, Eddie dips closer to kiss him again, and does not bother to be casual about the way he shifts closer along Richie’s side, pressing their hips together and letting Richie feel just how hard he is.

He swallows Richie’s groan, and smirks as his hands clench in the bedsheets. “Holy shit!” Richie says when Eddie pulls away, and it is so gratifying to see the joy shining in his eyes, and the way he beams up at Eddie. “It must be my birthday, right? No – wait – shit, it’s _somebody’s_ birthday, isn’t it!”

Eddie falters, and sighs, and Richie laughs, delighted by his own idiocy. “Lemme guess,” he grins. “Bringing up the Biblical Birthday Boy isn’t entirely welcome during Christmas morning sex?”

“You know the answer to that question and you still asked it anyway. You’re the worst,” Eddie tells him, and he takes the opportunity to run his hand up Richie’s chest until he can tweak his nipple, more sharply than before. He lowers his head to press a kiss to the other at the same time, and relishes the way Richie twitches beneath him with a gasp.

He abandons all pretence at coyness, and climbs atop Richie, straddling him at his hips. He peels his t-shirt off and tosses it aside, and basks in the heat of the look Richie aims at him, all wide-eyed wonder and awed disbelief, as though Richie cannot believe he gets to see Eddie like this at all. It is, as ever, ridiculously flattering, as is the way his hands stroke almost reverentially over Eddie’s skin as they rise to grasp at his thighs.

Then Richie’s eyes drop to Eddie’s crotch, and his look of wonder becomes something closer to lust, and Eddie smirks.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie breathes. His hands slide up Eddie’s thighs, his fingers spreading and leaving lines of heat on his skin as they go. One hand brushes over the swell of his cock in his boxers, and Eddie groans, letting his head fall back and pushing his hips into Richie’s touch.

Richie inhales sharply. “You’re so fucking beautiful, man. It shouldn’t be allowed. Where the fuck do you get off, looking so good?”

“Hopefully, I get off on top of you,” Eddie grins, and delights in Richie’s throaty laugh. 

Richie firms his touch and Eddie’s breath catches, and he rocks instinctively into his hand, his hips bucking needily. Then he catches his hand by the wrist and drags it up to his mouth, and presses a kiss to the palm as he keeps his eyes on Richie’s. 

“I love you,” he tells him sincerely, because he knows damn well what it will do to Richie; Eddie smiles as he groans, and falls back against the bed, his head thrown back and his throat bobbing as he gasps. 

He also takes the opportunity to rock on top of his hips, his ass pressing down over Richie’s rapidly stiffening cock, because Eddie has always been a little shit at heart. 

Richie groans, heated and needy, and Eddie cannot help but laugh. “You’re so easy,” he teases, because he _is_ , and Eddie loves it.

Since they started being physical together, Richie has always been gratifyingly turned on by Eddie, regardless of what he’s doing. Perhaps other people might see his reactions as overblown, or exaggerated, or even just plain mocking, but Eddie knows him too well to think that. 

Richie is just genuinely that into him, and Eddie is blown away by it. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sheer lust with which Richie reacts to his clumsy, occasionally hesitant attempts at seduction. Eddie lived as a closeted gay man for much of his life, after all; Richie’s open, genuine fervour for him, both physical and mental, is something which helps him to feel comfortable with himself.

And it’s hot as hell, too.

“What do you want?” Richie asks, just as easy as he always is in bed, and Eddie considers, cocking his head thoughtfully as he kneels atop him.

And then he shuffles down just enough to be able to pull Richie’s hard cock from his boxers, wrapping his hand around it and stroking along its length. “I kind of just want to see you get off for me,” he admits, his eyes heated as he gazes at Richie laid out before him. He thumbs over the head of his cock, spreading pre-come along his hot, firm length, and grins as Richie groans.

He nods shakily, even as his cheeks flush. 

Eddie knows Richie doesn’t particularly like his body; he doesn’t hate it, either, but he confessed once to not thinking himself ‘sexy’ in comparison to Eddie. He had said it like it was just a simple fact, and had been astonished when Eddie had first lectured him, then jumped him. 

He had taken it upon himself to prove to Richie _just_ how sexy Eddie thought he was, and had gone about doing so as thoroughly as possible. Hours later, when Richie was gratifyingly exhausted and only had the energy left to wrap himself around Eddie and cuddle into him, he had been able to accept that perhaps he was a catch after all, even if he did blush adorably when Eddie said as much.

Right now, Eddie wonders if Richie is reminding himself of that moment, as he lies beneath Eddie and blinks hesitantly back at his hungry gaze. To Eddie’s delight he does not protest, even as a blush spreads from his cheeks down over the length of his throat and onto his chest. “Okay,” he murmurs instead, and his fingers tighten on Eddie’s thighs before they fall onto the bed. 

Eddie is not in the mood to draw things out. His own cock is almost aching between his legs, heated and needy, but he relishes the chance to watch Richie fall apart in his hands. He wraps his fingers around him and strokes, long, hard movements that leave Richie gasping and moaning and twitching beneath him.

He keeps up a steady stream of rambling as Eddie works his hand over his cock, which rapidly loses any semblance of sense. “God, you’re gorgeous – fuckin’ best way to wake up – you look so fucking hot, Eds, so beautiful when you – _fuck_ yeah, like that, _please_ – Eddie – fuck, can you – _oh_ – god, I can’t believe..!”

His hands fist tightly in the sheets and his mouth falls open in a long, breathless moan as Eddie gives up on restraint and slides his free hand into his boxers to tease his own cock. He watches Richie pant beneath him, relishing the way the muscles of his thighs tense and twitch beneath his weight as he coaxes Richie onward. His hand fists loosely around his own cock as he drinks in the sight Richie makes as he pleads and gasps and praises him with what few words he can force out.

Eventually, it is too much for him; Eddie firms his touch and murmurs, “You’re so fucking beautiful, Rich. I love you,” and Richie spills into his hand with a garbled moan.

Eddie watches avidly as Richie pants and slowly relaxes beneath him, tension sliding away from his tight muscles as his own cock begs for more. When Richie’s eyes open again, and he gives him a bright, dopey smile, Eddie only hesitates for a second before he lifts his land and licks Richie’s spilled come from his hand with a long stroke of his tongue.

Richie damn near wails. “Fucking _hell_! You should be illegal!” he moans, and wriggles his way out from beneath Eddie. 

He pushes Eddie over with stream of grumbled cursing, and Eddie blinks as he finds himself sprawling on his back, the breath knocked from him with the sudden fall. He only has time to prop himself up on his elbows and huff, “What the fuck, Rich?” before Richie is kneeling over him, looking damn-near furious.

“Fucking – licking my _come_ – I _know_ you think it’s unsanitary and you did it anyway, for me, you enormous asshole!” he rambles, his eyes wild with heat. He curls his fingers in Eddie’s boxers to yank them off unceremoniously, and carelessly hurls them across the room as Eddie laughs, delighted by how well his ploy went.

Before Eddie can poke fun at him, Richie ducks down and takes Eddie’s cock into his mouth.

Eddie _yells_ , already teetering on the precipice after watching Richie get off for him. “Richie!” he gasps, and his hands instinctively fist in Richie’s tangled hair. Richie moans in response, and the sensation tingles over Eddie’s flushed cock and crackles along his nerves, leaving him shivering.

He is helpless beneath Richie as he works his mouth around him, his large hands holding onto Eddie’s hips to keep him in place as he bobs his head and fills his mouth again and again. He can’t quite take all of his dick into his mouth, but he’s told Eddie more than once that he wants to learn how; that he wants to be able to take Eddie into his throat and give him the best orgasm of his life.

Eddie’s told him again and again that he’s already done _that_ , but still, he loves the image. The idea that Richie wants to please him so much, that he wants to learn how to bring him to new heights, is nothing short of intoxicating. 

He tightens his hands in Richie’s hair and tugs encouragingly, and revels in the way Richie hisses and groans and eagerly takes him further into his mouth. He chokes after a moment, and Eddie quickly pushes him off, but Richie damn near growls at him despite his watering eyes. He returns his mouth to his cock and glares at Eddie along the length of his body, as though daring him to protest, and all Eddie can do is laugh breathlessly, and arch his hips into Richie’s mouth.

It doesn’t take long. Eddie is flushed and shivering and begging by the time he spills into Richie’s eager mouth, his fingers clenched so hard in his hair that they turn white, and Eddie lets out a final ragged moan as Richie swallows around him. 

He keeps sucking at his softening cock, more gently and carefully, cleaning him up until Eddie winces and pushes him away with a pleading, “Hey, too much, back off, okay?”

“Love you,” Richie mumbles as he crawls up the bed and flops on top of Eddie. He nuzzles under Eddie’s chin for a moment, then takes advantage of his blissed-out state to steal a kiss, which leaves Eddie spluttering.

“You _just_ had my dick in your mouth!” he protests when Richie releases him, but it’s half-hearted at best, even if the taste of his come is bitter in his mouth.

“Where it belongs,” Richie sighs contentedly, and Eddie laughs. He wiggles his sticky fingers and realises, with a chuckle, that he has accidentally smeared Richie’s own come in his hair.

“I got your jizz in your hair,” he tells him conversationally. He drags the hand Richie spilled into through his curls again, unrepentant and amused in equal measure. “Sorry.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll live,” Richie yawns. He kisses Eddie again, then moves his lips to press another kiss to his scar, and settles beneath his chin. “Hey. Merry Christmas, and all that.”

“Merry Christmas,” Eddie returns, and tightens his arms around Richie.

They lie in silence for a moment, sticky but satisfied, and sleepy. Eddie is just about to drift back to sleep when Richie’s voice breaks the silence. His tone is much too innocent to be trusted. “Eds?”

“Mm?”

“Did google tell you to wake me up like this for Christmas, or -”

“- I can’t _fucking believe you_!” Eddie shrieks, but there is no hiding his giggles. He wriggles out from under Richie, and shoves a pillow in his face as he laughs until he cries. 

They play fight for a while, throwing pillows at each other and yelling insults which devolve into snorts of laughter, until eventually they’re just cuddling in a pile of tossed blankets. It takes a while before they can persuade themselves to get up.

They decide to clean up together. Showering takes a while, primarily because Richie keeps grabbing Eddie and kissing wherever he can reach – his mouth, his neck, down his spine, one kiss to each ass cheek – while Eddie spouts statistics about the dangers of shower sex and slowly, inevitably, melts under his attention. 

Eventually, once the water is running cold and Eddie is so relaxed his legs are like jelly, they succeed in cleaning themselves up. They towel off, and get into their pyjamas, and Richie cheers when Eddie hands him the box of cereal he bought. “Eddie my love! Are you serious right now? You _hate_ me eating this stuff!”

“You only get so many teeth, Rich. You shouldn’t wear ‘em away with this stuff.”

“Yeah, I remember your gross teeth lectures. But you bought it for me anyway!” He beams, and tears the box open to dump a handful of dry cereal into his mouth, keeping eye contact with Eddie throughout. He crunches obnoxiously, and grins broadly, and when he speaks, crumbs fly everywhere. “Oh, ‘s good! Fanks!”

“Stop being gross,” Eddie groans, and settles two bowls in front of him with a clunk. “And pour me a goddamn bowl before I take it back.”

Richie gives a eulogy about Eddie’s teeth the entire time they eat, prematurely mourning their loss as though Eddie has ever had anything but the best home dental regime. It is, regrettably, delicious, and Eddie reluctantly admits as much, just to hear Richie crow victoriously, but his eyebrows disappear into his hairline when he idly reads the nutritional information, and realises precisely how much sugar he’s just eaten.

He has a quick moment of regret. Then Richie settles his hand over Eddie’s and squeezes softly, and murmurs, “Hey, thanks, Eds. I really appreciate this,” and his fretting fades away into the background. If he can’t allow himself a treat at Christmas, when can he?

He grins, and steals a bite from Richie’s bowl, and revels in the high-pitched shriek his betrayal produces.

They eat more of the box than is advisable, before Eddie snatches it up and puts it in the most awkward to reach of their cupboards. It will be gone before New Year, he knows, but he’ll do whatever he can to ensure Richie works his way through it as slowly as possible.

Richie distracts him with the idea of exchanging their gifts after that. He watches Eddie settle his presents for Richie on the table with an awkward expression that has Eddie giggling. 

“Did you forget where you put yours?” Eddie teases.

“Memory loss is no longer one of my issues, actually.”

“No?” Eddie grins, and points towards their bedroom innocently. “Maybe you still hurt from your fall yesterday? You want me to go get them for you? All you have to do is tell me where they are, because I _know_ they’re not in the wardrobe. Right?”

Richie hesitates, then slumps on the table with his face in his hands. “You’re such a little shit,” he grumbles, and pulls a face as Eddie cackles. “Fine. Go get ‘em, then. If you can reach them!”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Eddie snorts, and saunters smugly to their bedroom.

He pulls a chair up to the wardrobe, and reaches into the top drawer, smirking when his hands close around a bag.

He pulls it down, and frowns when he realises how light it is. 

Impulse control has never been one of Eddie’s strong suits. He opens the bag, too curious to resist, and cannot help but laugh when he sees what lies inside.

Crumpled up newspapers fill the bag to near-bursting, but what makes Eddie give in to laughter is the photograph which lies on top of it all; it shows Richie, smirking wickedly into the camera and holding up both middle fingers.

When he returns to the kitchen, he finds a new row of gifts laid out on the table, and Richie posed exactly as he was in the photograph, fighting back laughter.

“Okay. All right. I’m big enough to admit it,” Eddie chuckles, and leans in to murmur against Richie’s lips, “You got me.”

He kisses him, and grins as Richie returns the kiss, but still throws his hands up in triumph. “Where did you _actually_ hide them?” he asks as he seats himself and looks his presents over.

The only answer he gets is a smug, “Did you know bed in the guest bedroom has a drawer in the base?”

Eddie didn’t. He does now, at least.

They open their gifts, and are both thoroughly overwhelmed, even though the presents themselves are not exactly grand. It doesn’t matter; it is clear that they have put some thought into what the other would appreciate, and neither can stop grinning at the results.

Richie is delighted with his Sega Genesis Mini, and promises to kick Eddie’s ass at _Street Fighter_ like they’re thirteen again, with a wistful smile on his face. 

Eddie, meanwhile, cannot stop beaming at the huge photo collage Richie has made of the Losers, which even includes a few pictures of them as kids, apparently provided by Mike. 

Bowled over by just how much he loves it, Eddie sets up a face time with the rest of the Losers, and thanks them all for helping with his gift. They all chat for a while, and toast to the holidays, and excitedly plan what they’re going to do when they’re together for next week.

It’s going to be messy, and ridiculous, just like it always is whenever they get together. Eddie cannot wait.

When they leave the call, it is to the sound of Ben trying to sing along to Mariah Carey, and both of them are wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

Both, by now, full of sugar and thoroughly hyped up on excitement, they decide to hit the kitchen as they debate which movie to watch first. 

Richie makes an enormous bowl of popcorn, while Eddie neatly ties an apron over his pyjamas, and sets about making mulled wine. Richie can’t seem to get over the sight of him. “You’re just too cute,” he coos for the thousandth time as he watches Eddie pad around in pyjamas, pink slipper-socks, and an apron.

“Too cute for what?”

“Too cute for _me_!” Richie offers, and yet again slides close to pull Eddie into a hug from behind. “Too cute to cope with! Too cute to resist!” His lips move to his neck, peppering kisses there and leaving Eddie shivering. 

“If you don’t keep an eye on the popcorn, I’m going to call for a fire truck,” he threatens, even as he tilts his neck to direct Richie further down his throat. “And they’ll turn the hose on you, and wash you away.”

“Mm, no thanks,” Richie murmurs against his ear. “The only hose I’m interested in -”

“- It’s burning!”

“Oh, shit!”

A mad scramble ensues, and they end up dumping that entire batch of popcorn. Richie sheepishly sets another going, and settles for watching Eddie mull the wine and rant about the dangers of unattended stoves with a dreamy look on his face.

With a bowl of happily unsinged popcorn within reach, and two steaming mugs of mulled wine, they settle in for their movie marathon. First is _The Muppet Christmas Carol_ , which Eddie maintains is a classic. 

They sing along to every song, and laugh, and talk in terrible British accents throughout, and argue about whether cutting out the sad break-up song from the middle was an improvement or not. When they bring it up on YouTube to watch it, both trying to prove their point, Richie starts sniffling, and Eddie cannot help but hug him, even as he laughs softly about how fucking cute he is.

They pick the first two _Home Alone_ movies to watch next, and before too long Eddie understands what Richie meant when he talked about being swarmed by pigeons. The image of it justifiably freaks him out, of course, and he is mid-lecture on the dangers of histoplasmosis and bird fancier’s lung when their KFC delivery arrives.

They eat it whilst debating whether being swarmed by chickens would be better or worse than being swarmed by pigeons, and continue to work their way through the mulled wine as Kevin beats the shit out of two thieves and waits way, way too long to call the cops. “You see?” Richie yells, as Kevin merely smirks in satisfaction while one of them suffers an injury which would definitely have killed him, “He’s a fucking psycho!”

They both quieten down as the day goes on, worn out by their sugar crash and the wine. 

Richie falls asleep mid-way through _Die Hard_ , not long after their argument about whether or not it counts as a Christmas movie fizzles out into a shared appreciation of young Alan Rickman. He lies curled up on his side, snoozing with his head in Eddie’s lap, as Eddie strokes his hair. 

He catches sight of their silly turtle ornaments as they sit on the mantelpiece, and cannot help but grin as he cards his fingers through Richie’s hair. 

So maybe their Christmas wasn’t traditional. Maybe they didn’t do all the things google says they are supposed to.

But it was still perfect, in the end. It was _theirs_. 

And Eddie wouldn’t change a thing about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! <3


End file.
